


Sighted crows in a desert of rime

by sybilius



Series: Talking won't save you [4]
Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966)
Genre: Alcohol, Angel Eyes bullshit, Angel is an asshole, Awkward Conversations, BDSM, Backstory Elements, Bad dealing with feelings, Belonging, Blondie has no hobbies, Blood typing, Bloodplay, Card Games, Caribou, Consent, Constellations, Cowboy Lube, Don't Try This At Home, Don't make these bastards deal with their emotions, Excessive northern aesthetic, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Figuring out how to live with each other, Forensics but like, Friendship, Frostbite, Gold Rush, Gwitchin Character, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Justice, Knifeplay, M/M, Moral discussions, Morally Grey Characters, Murder Mystery, Northern Lights, Northern aesthetic, Past Rape/Non-con, Pre Gold Rush Technically, References to Hannibal, Retrospective, Self Acceptance, Sexual Roleplay, Survival, a classic sybil fic in so many ways, also evil characters, blood transfusion, but the chronology should make sense, but weird hurt/comfort, can you believe these assholes can make friends?, non chronological, north west forensics, seriously, sex banter, things go alright :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2018-12-19 12:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11897418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: Not getting killed is one thing. Surviving is a hell of another. But learning to live in a nowhere town in the northern tundra, with Angel Eyes of all people, might just be the craziest thing Blondie has ever tried to do.





	1. Between bars of flaking iron

**Author's Note:**

> Well, well, well. Here we are again. I suppose the promise of a Northern aesthetic was too interesting to let go of, and I'll blame Bec (cudvac.tumblr) for some most excellent headcanons that pushed me to write this. 
> 
> Please mind the warnings in this fic-- every time I write more of this pairing I go "whoa, what the hell", so don't read this without knowing what you're getting yourself into. I'll try and post individual warnings for each chapter as well.
> 
> These warnings include: past non-con / vaguely alluded to sexual trauma, very very bad ways of dealing with that, explicit BDSM scenarios with non-verbal consent (but decent consent nonetheless), and you know, the usual poor communication but a little bit of sweetness to round it off. 
> 
> Oh, and card games. Always with the card games. I hope the way this story is told makes sense. Latin translations to follow, thought there should be fewer this time :)

It’s a night so cold that breath crystallizes even with roaring fires at both ends of the saloon. The wind is howling full tear outside, rattling against the wooden latch. It would be murder to try and shut the door. Not that there are many patrons, only a few shivering at tables and a man with an unlit cigar tapping his gloved fingers on the counter. 

_ Don't know why I even bother leaving my room. _

Blondie pulls the matted caribou of his coat closer, putting away the quirley and taking another spoonful of the glue-like soup. Eating is important, at least, if he doesn't want to drop dead in this icy nowhere. 

_ Do you want to die alone?  _

He doesn't know why he said that to the man he later killed. It's the one he killed for...but no use thinking on that. There's always the never-ending winter to walk out into if he wants to go down that road. 

Somehow though, seems less appealing than the raw scorch of the desert. Less pain in it. But Blondie let himself be taken away from all of that.  _ God knows I hated looking at it.  _

Blondie doesn't think he hates the bleak and silent snow of the northern wasteland. So that's something, at least, one better than the desert.  _ Guess I could almost say I liked it, at one point.  _

The door of the inn rattles its latch open, slamming against the howling wind. Blondie is on his feet before the dark hide of the coat stops him short. 

_ Shit. _

The man is still struggling and it's bitter cold, so Blondie strides over to the door, shoves his considerable muscle on the other side of it. It takes a moment of both of them fumbling for the right angle to push before they manage to latch it shut. 

“I had it,” Angel Eyes fixes him with a searing look.

Blondie doesn't say anything to that. 

Blondie still doesn't knows how he does it, a town so small there's only a handful of ramshackle buildings, most of them houses. But this is the first time he's seen Angel Eyes in almost a month. Blondie steps away, avoiding his gaze and returning to the bar. He counts almost a half a minute before the stool beside him creaks. He hesitates before breathing in a too-familiar scent of gunpowder, sweet pipe tobacco, and something almost like dried blood. 

It's still as intoxicating as ever. 

“Castellan told me I'd find you here.”

Blondie expected that from her, and not only because Sue had told him they'd been talking. He scrapes a last bite of soup from the bowl, wondering how Angel wants him to respond to that. 

What is there to say?  _ Weather’s a mess, come upstairs, let’s fucking have each other?  _

_ You look like you're healing up fine? _

_ I can’t stand to look at you anymore? _ He forces his eyes to meet Angel’s. His mouth is set in a hard line, his mustache touched with frost, and his eyes more shadowed than usual.  _ God above, he looks a little like hell _ . But mostly, he looks just like the devil Blondie knows. Wishes he didn’t know where the devil in him begins and ends. 

_ I know who that ends with.  _ His chest tightens.

“Do you want a drink? Looks like you need one,” 

Blondie's lip twists,  _ is he taking the piss?  _ Because god knows the last time he had whiskey --  _ well shit, I hope he doesn't bring that up. _

“No,” he glances over to catch Angel’s uncertain half shrug. 

It's a peace offering. The whole thing, though Blondie doesn't know why Angel Eyes feels like he owes him anything. The barkeep comes and goes, only sparing a wary glance to Angel Eyes when he pours a glass. The whole town knows what happened, or a version of it. The version that keeps the barkeep smiling grimly at Blondie. 

Against his better judgment, Blondie watches Angel’s hands on his glass of whiskey, lingering on the missing knuckle on his middle finger.  _ There’s the last time _ . 

Before he can stop himself, his eyes flicker up to meet Angel's - -  seeing real tension, real pain in them.  _ Shit. That's a sight.  _

“Uh. “ the strangest possible thought would be Angel feeling like shit on his account. Much as Sue insisted that it did happen. He takes out a quirley and lights it, before breaking the silence. 

“Did you want something?”

He winces a moment, remembering the last time Angel used those words on him. Feels like a lifetime ago.  _ It might as well be.  _

Angel just laughs, short and bitter, but the carelessness of it is familiar. “There's a table by the fire. Let's play cards.” 

“Yeah. Alright.” 

The hearth is at least considerably warmer than the bar. They take a seat in a tiny, beaten up round table, opposite each other.After a moment of fumbling with the thick leather, Angel produces a deck of cards from the stiff folds of his coat. He can still shuffle as well as ever, his deft and strong hands setting the stage for a poker game.  _ Betting and bluffing, just like always.  _

Blondie isn't sure taking chances is the right way for them to stop avoiding each other. 

_ But hell. When have we ever done anything that could be called ‘right’? _

“You. You doing alright?” Blondie catches the flicker of annoyance in Angel’s face and bites down on his quirley, “Look. I just. I wanna know.”

Angel lays down the flop, studying his hand before turning his gaze back to Blondie. In the firelight his cheekbones look more skeletal than usual. 

“Yeah. You're not, are you? No. You're surviving.”

“Isn't that all we’re after, here?” 

“Yeah. We are,” It's a moment after Angel pushes his ante that Blondie realizes he's included him in ‘we’, without even thinking of it.  _ Well. Shit.  _

Angel’s sleeve rides up when he turns over the ace of spades, showcasing a scar on his right wrist that Blondie knows well by now.  _ Hell, wasn't it when this whole journey started that I found that out? _

He glances from his hand to the roaring stone hearth. It's hard to put a start to all of it. Whether it began with the cave, or with murder in a graveyard, or with a desperate, meaningless fuck by firelight. And this wasn't even the first day on the road north, no. It was the last. 

They’d gone far enough north at that point to catch ghostly flickers of blue and green amidst the sea of milky stars. Their leather boots had been traded for something thick and lined, and their horses for others more accustomed to the harsh weather. But it was summer north of the border for the moment, which meant the snow was sparse enough. At least when they weren’t on mountain trails.

There were no towns between where they were and Old Crow Pass, where they were bound. But there was a dead one. Just under a day’s ride, and half the buildings rotting out and collapsing from god knows how many years of abandonment. 

“That one looks to be in alright shape.”

“Sheriff’s office?” Angel smiled, amusement dancing in his eyes, “Fitting. Spending the night in the jail.”

“Yeah, shut up.”

Blondie had long since given up on thinking about the law, or what side of it he should be on.  _ Doesn’t mean I don’t know where I stand. _ He just didn’t think about it very much, as Angel knew well by this point. 

“ _ Acclinis falsis animus meliora recusat _ ,” he stated, clearly in a good mood. Blondie remembered that one vaguely. Something about false appearances. In any case, Angel was being a sonofabitch, so that was nothing new. 

They took stock of the single-room with two cells, a desk, and a rusty old stove to keep the place up to temperature in the winters. The desk was relatively dry wood, so they kicked it over, spilling out faded wanted posters, rusty keys, iron handcuffs. Blondie went to work with the axe on it, reducing it to logs and kindling while Angel cleaned out the stove. At that point, there was a natural rhythm to creating a fire, making camp with someone else. 

By the time Blondie wiped the sweat off his brow, Angel was swinging the set of keys around on his finger and pacing lazily about the cold inside of the cells. 

“You ever been in jail, Blondie?” 

“No,” he was surprised at the familiarity in the question-- Angel Eyes didn’t seem like the type to slip up. He pulled out a match to light up the fire, tossing a few pieces of the kindling on top before slamming it shut. He glanced back to Angel, who had one hand on the bars and a strange look on his face.

“I let myself get caught, once, to see what it was like.”

“So what was it like?”

“Interesting,” Angel said evasively, picking something out of his pocket. He wore an odd smirk when he pinned it on Blondie, a rusty old sheriff’s star, “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about this. Being a lawman. Was it an old dream, or a young one?”

Blondie gritted his teeth, grabbing Angel by the forearm, squeezing hard. He’d never said that to anyone still alive, much less to Angel Eyes.  _ But he still knows. God above. _ Angel smiled, as he so often did when he succeeded in pissing Blondie off. So Blondie knew where this was going. 

_ Not a good idea. _ He took hold of the handcuffs in Angel’s hand, “So did he know who he had, the sheriff who caught you?”

“He knew I'd killed a man in town. It lined up with business well.” 

“Taking in a murderer, huh,” quick as he could, Blondie twisted Angel’s arm and clamped the rusty iron onto his wrists. Angel’s elbow jabbed hard into his ribs, but it was playfighting. Blondie slammed him to the iron bars for good measure.

“Did you struggle, more than that?” 

“Not for him, Sheriff,” the mockery in Angel’s voice set his blood to boil. 

“Shut up,” Blondie threw him to his knees in the cell, at once sickened and aroused. But not guilty about it, at least. Never that. Angel was on the floor and it seemed like where he wanted to be, for the time being.  _ God knows nothing can stop him getting what he wants. Least of all me.  _ Blondie checked his glare before kicking him in the shoulder. 

“Big, bad lawman,” Angel mocked, cocking his head and licking his lips. 

“If you don't shut your dirty mouth in my jail, I'm gonna --”

“Gonna what, sheriff,” Angel was already partially struggling to his feet, so Blondie jabbed a boot to his stomach, just enough to knock the wind out of him. 

“Shut you up myself,” he jammed his fingers between Angel’s lips, forming a fist in Angel’s mouth, and getting his pants open with his other hand. Angel bit back slightly, and Blondie slipped the tip of his gun to his neck.  _ So that would show him.  _ Angel’s eyes danced with amusement. 

Blondie shoved his cock down till Angel was practically choking on it - - which a sheriff wouldn’t dare, not knowing what those teeth might do. Blondie was fairly sure it was what Angel wanted. 

_ It sure as hell is what I want.  _

Between the engulfing heat and the subtle gagging sensation, it was easy to lose himself-- Angel Eyes had always been a devil with his mouth, and knew it well. He fucked Angel’s mouth till his eyes were watering and his mustache was glistening, before grabbing hold of a fistful of his hair.

“You get something out of murderin’ that man?” Blondie played the role brutally, thrusting hard once before he ripped his hair back to let the mercenary speak. 

“I'd do it again if I had the chance,” Angel snarled - - which was out of character for him.  _ He's usually so...casual about the hit jobs.  _ Blondie figured it was part of the playacting.  _ Maybe _ . 

Blondie kept the game going for the moment, whipping his gun against Angel's high cheekbones with a satisfying crack. He wore the illusion of fear well, or something like it, spitting on the floor as the manacles rattled. 

“That the worst you can do?” he spat again, sneering. 

“You're lucky you're gonna hang tomorrow. Gonna make your wish you were dead,” Blondie faltered on the last word, Angel’s expression momentarily frozen. But he shook his head and snarled viciously, which earned him another blow from the gun. 

“You hold onto that thought,” a slight bruising suited Angel Eyes. Or so Blondie thought. He shoved Angel’s head to the ground, sheathing his Colt for the moment. The slam of the cell door held bitter satisfaction, as he crossed the room holding up his pants. He rummaged through the pack to find the bottle of oil.

“No - - use the gun oil,” Angel coughed, gripping the bars. 

Blondie felt like arguing -- it was greasy and smelled awful-- but there was something flinty and implacable in Angel’s eyes that told him not to argue.  _ Something he's looking for here.  _

Blondie could tell it was nothing good - - not that that had ever stopped him before. He dug out the smaller bottle, wrinkling his nose slightly at the oily scent.

When he got back in the cell Angel was on his feet and sneering theatrically again, so Blondie pushed him to his knees and tore at his belt, grinding his head into the soft wood of the floor. He was hard enough to be aching for touch, Blondie could tell. He ran a finger down the cleft of his ass before slapping it hard.  _ Now, for the gun oil.  _

“Just yourself,” Angel said, mouth set in a tight line.  _ Guess this is part of the sheriff bit?  _ Blondie dips his fingers into the grease, lathering it generously on his rock-hard cock. It would have felt nice, if he wasn't studying Angel, trying to figure out what he was after. 

Angel burrowed his head to the ground even before Blondie put a hand to hold him down.  _ Movement looks familiar _ . Blondie's thoughts were abstract, his mind numbed by anticipation as he knocked Angel's legs wide.  _ This what a lawman would have done?  _

It was when he'd forced his full length into Angel that he realized - - 

_ This has happened to him before.  _ Blondie gasped slightly as his cock slid home, hesitating.

_ God above. And this is why he wanted this?  _

“What?” Angel's voice was edging on breathless and dangerous as the blade of a knife. 

_ I should stop this.  _

It was equal parts thrilling and terrifying when he realized how much he didn't want to. 

“Keep quiet,” Blondie replaced his hand, knotted in Angel’s hair, tugged hard. Started to build up a rhythm. Angel gasped, eyes wide open and strange. There was something different in them, something Blondie would later recognize as pain. At the time, it went straight to his groin, driving him to thrust deeper, harder, get to the bones of the place Angel was. The place he was still trying to reach, for some awful, godless reason. 

“Was it like this?” Blondie didn't know how or why he found the words to ask.  _ Hell. There it is. _ Angel froze for a moment, breath torn from his throat. 

“Harder.” 

Blondie doubled his pace, the floorboards creaking beneath them, rattling the iron bars.  _ Is this what justice feels like? _ A question he'd been asking himself every time he saw Tuco almost hang, every time he watched someone like him get gunned down. Angel twisted his head to an angle Blondie would have been afraid to hold him at for fear of breaking his neck.  _ The law can be twisted.  _ Blondie knew this well. He pressed his fingers into the bones of Angel’s neck as hard as he dared, recognizing what the position was meant to evoke.

“Like the noose?” he asked, and it was all Angel could do to choke and nod before the last thrust had him coming in spurts beneath them. Blondie gave him a half a beat more before releasing his grip and driving into him once, twice, unraveling with a raw scream. 

They remained still for a moment, hardly daring to breathe. Then Angel shuffled out from under him, leaving a cold sweat in his wake and the stain of his semen on the cell floor. 

“Do you need me to--” Blondie trailed off, as Angel moved his shoulder into a strange position, maneuvering a key out of his pocket and into the cuffs.  _ Wonder if he picked that trick up before or after he went to jail. _

Blondie would bet on it being after. He cleaned himself off with the rag in his pocket, studying Angel warily. When Angel took off the cuffs, Blondie noticed an old scar, now red and raw where the cuffs had ground into it. 

It had become an unspoken rule not to ask about scars but Blondie had always wondered at the strange texture of that one.  _ Handcuff sore. So that's one question answered.  _

They both dressed in silence, neither of them quick to reach for a smoke, or stay casual this time. 

_ God. Hell of a thing for him to pull right before we get to the Pass. _

Not that Blondie hadn’t been as guilty of that as he was. He tore the star off his chest carelessly, but hesitated before throwing it to the ground. Instead, he stuck it in his pocket, the slight weight of feeling strangely penitent. He ran a hand through his hair, glancing back to Angel. 

“You cold?” Blondie noticed Angel had taken a seat next to the stove, rubbing shivering hands together. His whole body looked to be-- a little shaky. 

“It’s gonna be colder when the weather turns,” Angel grunted without looking at him, pulling his jacket closer. 

Blondie shrugged, beginning to stoke up the embers of the fire. It ate up the logs from the desk, quickly chugging back to a warm roar. The iron of the door echoed with a clank that almost made the both of them jump.

_ Just relax. Nothin’s different, and you ain’t done nothing wrong _ . He almost wanted to laugh at himself, for such a thought. There sure as hell wasn’t anything right about what he and Angel did together. No matter how it felt. 

Angel was still shivering, knees to his chest and back against the wall. So it wasn’t from the cold. And he still hadn’t even grabbed the blanket in their pack, eyes glazed and lips tight on his lit pipe like it was the only damn thing he could focus on. Blondie frowned, something like regret gathering in the pit of his stomach.  _ But hell. What the hell else did he want? _

Blondie wanted to do one better. He took the wool blanket from the rucksack, sat down next to Angel on the cold wood. Angel smirked when he spread the blanket over both of them, but it was a weak smirk. No venom in it.

It took a moment of staring at the rotting walls, the splintered wood of the desk in pieces on the floor before he had the courage to move. Blondie eased his arm overtop of Angel’s shoulders, tilting him inward and putting a hand on his knee. He twitched slightly, trying to move away, but it was half hearted. 

“Look. Don’t be an idiot, alright?” Blondie could feel Angel’s pulse jumping under his fingertips.  _ Dangerous territory but. It’s not as if we’re going anywhere.  _

“That what you think? That I’m stupid?”

“I think. You should shut up and sleep.”

“If you pity me-- I’ll shoot you in the head,” Angel growled, but didn’t move. Blondie snorted, shifting him closer.  _ He’s still shaking. _

“You pity me at least twice a day.” 

He rolled his head, saying nothing but slipping the pipe out of his mouth and allowing his head to rest on Blondie’s shoulder. The wood was within arm’s reach, and the stove would be going for at least a few more hours yet. 

So Blondie settled his back against the old wood, closed his eyes, and waited for the tremor in Angel’s shoulder to dissipate. Before long, it became a steady heartbeat that lulled him to sleep. 

He woke with a sore neck and the merciful smell of coffee filling the room. Blondie blinked the sleep from his eyes. Angel waking before him was completely usual-- but normally he’d be gone and come back shortly, scouting the trail, leaving Blondie to roll out of bedroll to throw together a coffee.  _ Hell, does he even drink it? _

He had his tin cup out, in any case, and was taking wary sips of it while keeping his eyes on Blondie. He jerked his head towards the pot, and Blondie lurched upwards, grabbing his and pouring out a cuppa. It was an edge too strong, and acidic in a way that almost made Blondie gag. 

_ But hell, it’s still coffee. _ Blondie had never been a morning person. 

He passed the tack biscuits to Angel, and they ate in silence. 

“Trail’s clear, and straight on for Old Crow Pass,” he took a sip of the coffee and grimaced, avoiding Blondie’s gaze, “I don’t know how you drink this stuff.”

“It’s less shit when I make it,” Blondie raised his cup in half-gratitude, half derision. 

Angel looked down and smiled, seeming to appreciate the return to something like normal, “And you say I'm a piece of work.”

“If you wanna, I can show you how it's done.”

“Yeah. Another morning then,” Angel crossed the room to throw his cup outside while Blondie helped himself to another. There might be many more mornings to make better coffee, but today they still had a fair amount of trail to cover.

It was a heavily grey day, with a wind just starting to pick up from the east. There was a storm in it, and they were lucky it didn't start raining till midday. Then it became a miserable, soaking drip that had both of them urging their horses forward. The trail turned to mud, squelching with the weight of their horses and their packs. 

_ You figure it’s many more miles? _ Blondie wanted to ask, but both of them were on edge, and that wasn’t going to do shit. 

“That look like a man to you?” Angel pointed at a craggy rock formation, barely visible through the dull sheet of rain. But sure enough, there was the suggested shape of a sharp jaw, a flat, glaring eye as if cut by God himself.  _ Hell of a trail marker.  _

“Think that might be it.”

They exchanged a dark, if slightly relieved glance. Old Crow Pass would be just around the corner at last. It had been a long road, and a slight nervousness jostled Blondie as their horses limp along the last leg of the trail. 

An awful scream cut through Blondie’s thoughts, followed by a stream of what might be curses in a language Blondie couldn’t recognize. They both reached for their guns, trying to find the source of it amidst the dripping conifers. 

“George? Peter? For God’s sake someone get me some help out here! I think Carver is dead!”

A figure ran out of the brush -- certainly a woman, but dressed in a practical, tunic like skirt over top of a pair of pants. She was soaking wet and holding a fistful of some kind of strange root. Blondie was impressed at how quickly she spotted them, even in the torrent of rain. 

“You-- who the hell are you?” the woman had a thick, implacable accent and eyes that reminded Blondie of the handful of Indians he’d met.

“Strangers,” Angel fingered his gun belt warily. The woman didn't seem the least bit cowed by what would have been a dangerous move in the West. 

“Well, stranger-- a man’s been found dead, or almost like it. So you better give me a hand getting him to the surgeon,” she fixed Blondie with a hard stare, and Blondie found himself wishing for a quirley to frown around. Or at least for his hat to stop dripping. 

“Alright. Take us to the body.”  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Acclinis falsis animus meliora recusat - The mind intent upon false appearances refuses to admit better things (Horace)
> 
> In case you're wondering, the question of "what happened to Angel Eyes?" will be addressed later on in the fic. If you're worried (or hoping?) it's going to be some kind of sob story that explains why he's "like that"-- it's not. You can probably read between the lines and figure out what happened from this alone, but suffice it to say, he's a bad person who puts himself into bad situations, and sometimes that's gonna come back and hurt you. But it didn't make him any worse (or god forbid, better) as a person-- just another thing that makes him weird, and that poor Blondie has to deal with :P
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed reading this! Let me know of your thoughts, I'd love to hear them! :)


	2. Carve up the frost, suck out the marrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly this is one of the nicer chapters and has fewer warnings! Content warning for corpse shenanigans (forensics??? sort of??) and dead animals/hunting. That's it really!
> 
> Sue's words are from the Vuntut Gwitchin language, an indigenous peoples native the the Yukon. Translations to follow, along with Angel's Latin bullshit :)

Blondie wins the first hand with nothing but a two pair.

He scrapes the coins to his side of the table warily, taking up the deck to deal the next. There's the question of what Angel wants, and it's damn certain not a card game. _Or it’s got to be more than that_. Far too much history for it to be otherwise.

They kept it simple for a long time while coming up north. Eat, sleep, fuck, rinse, repeat. Follow the trail, make camp. Sometimes Angel Eyes would say something offhand about gods, wax cynical poetic about the divine, and that would turn into strange mythos that Blondie was never sure if he’d heard, invented, or truly believed. Mainly Blondie would listen without having much to say.

 _It was comfortable._ Or Blondie could call it that. He picks up his hand, Angel Eyes regarding him from behind the red-patterned cards.

“You still living at his house?” Blondie chances the question without looking at him.

“Yeah.” It's not as if Angel Eyes had any respect for the dead. And there was a cycle, a filling of roles, that they tumbled into in the town. Sue would call it _Naa’in_ tribe, with an air of derision. Blondie never asked what it meant. Castellan likened it to cogs fitting into a clock.

Blondie still doesn't feel like he fits anywhere. But it’s not quite the same sense of nowhere it was before.

“So you haven’t gone anywhere either,” Angel inclines his eyes upstairs to their old room. Old habits, is it?”

“Thought you didn’t like stating the obvious,” Blondie’s lips trip over Angel’s words. That was an old quip.

“I don’t like it when others do. Remember that I’m a hypocrite, Blondie,” And that one even older. _Did he come here to talk about ancient history?_

“Yeah.”

Angel Eyes pauses from the game for a moment to fetch a bowl of soup from the bar counter. Blondie doesn’t bother to hide his stare, and Angel plays the old game just as well, the curve of his ass visible beneath his coat when he leans onto the counter. _Wish it felt as careless as it used to._ But that seemed a stupid thing to wish for, now.

Angel returns to his seat with the steaming bowl, examining the next hand and putting down a bet before taking a spoonful. Blondie tries not to let his eyes wander. Especially not to the slight exposure of Angel’s collarbones. He swallows a drink of water, slight guilt poisoning the taste of habit.

“I feel like I might have carved up the caribou that’s in this stew-- one of yours?” Angel raises an eyebrow at him. That was another reason it was so remarkable that they'd missed each other for a solid month, given how closely their roles intertwined. Hunter and carver. Practically a pair.

“We’ve been thinning the herd,” Blondie drops his cards down, that hand goes to Angel Eyes. _So that’s even for now._ Though they'd both wagered more on the last hand.

“But they're still in good number?”

“That's what Sue said, yeah.”

Angel turns over the queen of hearts in the flop, fittingly. Sue is the eyes, ears, and heart of Tweechik, and she gave the place it's name too. The cheaper version of the real Indian settlement much further north. Blondie had learned what the locals called Old Crow Pass almost as soon as he'd met her.

“Funny that we rode in when they found the first body,” Blondie pushes forward his bet. Angel raises an eyebrow, sees his wager. _I guess I wanna talk about history too._

“It was...how would Sue put it. A good omen.”

Blondie supposes that's what he meant at the time, too. The scene is just as vivid in Blondie's mind as it was with the summer rain at his back, Angel and Sue by his side.

The rain was just starting to taper when they followed the strange woman into the brush, Angel glancing warily back to where the horses lay waiting. She wasn’t someone it was easy to get a handle on. _No idea whether to trust a woman like that._ Blondie would have probably followed a man, but didn't know what the hell to make of her. She moved quickly through the brush, motioning at them to leave their horses.

“He’s not going to make it, but he’s breathing. We might as well try,” she swore again in syllables Blondie had never heard before, “Some kind of bear attack, nothing like any I’ve seen.”

The body was lying face-down on craggy, moss-covered rocks dusted with growth. The gashes on its back were the first thing to come into view, straight through a jacket of thick hide that Blondie didn’t recognize. The woman didn’t ask for their help at all, simply wedged her hands around his arms and starts to lift him up. Blondie rushed to her side, but she’d already gotten the body lifted and shook her head with a frown at him.

 _God above, she’s strong._ The man has to be about Blondie’s size, and she’s got him thrown over her shoulder like a sack of flour. And she’s not tall herself. There’s blood all over the would-be corpse’s face, staining her coat.

“I’m going to take one of your horses, you ride together. Or if you wait, I’ll bring the horse back. I don’t know where you’re bound, but by the trail it must be Tweechik.”

Blondie bristled instinctively, “Hold on here--”

She stepped right past him without so much as a glance, “A man is dying-- and I know life might be cheap for people like you, but out here it could bring down the whole damn town.”

Blondie had never had anyone speak like that to him before. _Probably most are dead who have tried_ . It wasn't a thought he was proud of. But he let her continue down the trail without a word, and Angel Eyes didn't complain either. _Surprisingly._

She did struggle slightly getting the man’s body onto Blondie’s horse, and seemed at least somewhat grateful for Blondie’s height as he helped her. The body was mighty cold. Maybe just compared to desert corpses, but Blondie was surprised the man was still breathing. _He certainly ain’t conscious._

Blondie hefted the remainder of their pack onto the other horse, thankfully not as heavy at this point in the journey. _Except for the gold._ The woman paid absolutely no notice to the chink and weight, mounting the horse, and jerking the reins.

“Keep pace if you must, or look for the house with the antlers by the door,” she set the horse at a harder gallop than Blondie had ever seen it ride. He shook his head, talking out a quirley and pulling himself onto the now over-laden beast behind Angel.

“Hell of an introduction."

“Auspicious.” Angel Eyes smiled. Blondie wasn't sure if that word was Latin or not, but he wasn't surprised that a place with a body count would put Angel in a good mood.

It was a slow ride into Old Crow Pass, and their clothes were still soaked from the rain. Blondie found himself thoroughly looking forward to finding a bath house. _If there's even one in this town._ It was even sparser than he’d expected, even fewer buildings than the rotting town they’d left behind. The wooden structures scarred the landscape in ramshackle order, the road neither straight nor easy to follow. _Is there even a church?_ _Tall order when an entire town leaves God behind._

Somehow, it made the place seem more welcoming.

They found the house with the antlers at the back of town, with Blondie’s horse nowhere to be seen. It was a dark, weather-worn cabin that looks like it might be the oldest building in town. Blondie approached the door, wondering if they ought to knock. Angel just tugged the heavy wood open.

The house had few windows, presumably to keep the cold out in the winter months. When Blondie stepped in, he could see the short muscle of the woman they’d met in the trail, making preparations in the kitchen.

“Your horse is in back,” the woman looked up from chopping a pile of what looks like mosses.

“The man - -”

“He's dead,” she tilted her head towards the other room. Angel Eyes smiled out of the corner of his mouth at Blondie, crossing inside. Another woman was there, surprisingly, dressed in clean, neat clothes, with her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Heavy-set jaw and strong cheekbones, much taller than Sue. _Doctor’s assistant?_ She was making notes in a large book, studying the corpse with sharp interest. The man was stretched out on a table unlike any Blondie had seen before. _Looks like it was made for bodies like that. Or bigger._

But there’s a bed in the corner as well, and parts of it look like a normal doc’s home. _Almost normal._

The woman busied herself with a number of sharp instruments, variants on knives. Each of seeming made for a particular type of flesh or bone. _So a surgeon. A woman who’s a surgeon._ Blondie worried at his lip, wondering what kind of warped place Old Crow really was. The other woman crossed into the room.

“Who are these two?” the surgeon asked.

“Self-described strangers,” the first woman had a funny derision in her voice. It's then that Blondie realizes he never asked for her name.

“I'm Blondie,” he jerked his thumb behind him, “That's Angel Eyes.”

“Sue,” she meets his eyes with what could be a real smile, “And that's Castellan.”

Castellan only paused from her work a moment before using a large knife to tear open the man’s shirt front , exposing the deep claw marks criss crossing the coagulated blood. _Reminds me of a coyote scratch_. She picked up a smaller blade, examining its sharpness in the light from the window. The screech of a kettle interrupted the silence, which was Sue’s cue to leave and return with a tin cup that smelled peculiarly earthen.

“You two staying in town?” Sue sipped at whatever the hell that steaming concoction was.

“That your business?” Blondie almost wanted to add a ‘ma’am’, but he got the sense that she might not take kindly to that. _Certainly ain't like any woman I've met before._

“You're from the West, aren't you? Well, I've seen kind like you out looking for gold, and let me tell you, it’ll be my business when you're out with the scurvy, or Castellan’s when we have to cut your fingers off from the frostbite.”

“It’s not any concern of ours, Sue,” Castellan had resumed making neat lines of charcoal in the book, the image of the corpse's chest starting to take shape, “The Pass provides just enough for the people who already live here.”

“Well, you've got one less, don't you?” Angel Eyes stared her down, but she didn't seem to find this comment unsettling. Quite the opposite, her face assumed a blank, glassy smile.

“If you can shoot, it's possible you'd be an adequate replacement. But that's not my business,” She resumed the sketch, paying them both no further attention.

Angel Eyes stepped to the other side of the room to get a better look at the body. Sue looked momentarily like she wanted to grab his arm, but let him go. He narrowed his eyes at the bloodied neck, “No teeth marks. But a lot of claw marks.”

Castellan glanced up, “Yes. Unusual.”

“Is it?” Angel watched her carve out the wound along the left ribcage in black charcoal. The wound doesn't go deep enough to hit bone, “What kind of animal could have made those marks?”

“Would have said bear, but - -”

“Not deep, is it?”

“Yes,” Castellan narrowed her eyes at him, but it wasn’t a challenging look. _Curious, even_. She picked up the smaller knife again, “I'm going to cut him open.”

She stared at Angel. _Does she expect him to leave?_ Angel made a gesture as if to say ‘be my guest'. There was that glassy smile again. The knife entered at the top of his breast, then criss-crosses beneath collarbones. Angel watched her peel the flesh off the ribcage, examining the wounds from the inside. It was just now that the rank smell of blood hit Blondie’s nose. _Guess the desert makes a corpse stink faster._

“So, what do you think?” Castellan asked Angel. Angel just smiled; slow, sick and careful.  

“I don’t think this was an animal.”

“I don’t think so, either,” she prodded at the one that almost made it to the bone, “And two strangers in town found close to Carver’s body. That's unusual too.”

“You think I’d stand over the corpse of someone I’d ripped open with bear claws, of all things, and drop hints about how I did it?” Angel Eyes seemed mildly offended that she thought him capable of that kind of theatrics. Blondie fought the urge to snort.

“I might.”

Angel shook his head, “You’d be more subtle than that, at least.”

“You’re right. I would,” she smiled differently then, somewhere between her glass smile and the one Angel had just given her. Blondie realized with a lurch -- _this is someone who understands the way Angel thinks._

Blondie was unwilling to admit that did scare him a little about her.

Sue gave the two of them a long, considering look, briefly sharing a glance with Castellan. Then she turned to Blondie, “Come into the kitchen.”

Blondie just nodded, fingering a quirley out of his pocket. It was kept neatly enough, iron stove with the kettle whistling. He didn’t recognize any of the plants on the counter. _You can make something out of pine needles?_ His stomach churned with the strangeness. He rummaged in his pockets for the familiar taste of a quirley,  “You mind if I smoke?”

“I don’t.”

She threw a mix of some kind of dust into a tin cup, then stirred the hot water into it. She offered it to Blondie, or pushed it into his hands. Then she took a seat at the table. He sat down opposite her, lighting up the quirley with a match. She glanced down to his cup insistently. _Hell of a hospitality up here_. He took a hard swallow, the drink hot, bitter and ashy to the taste. It warmed him up, but that was the best he could say about it.

“Now you won’t get scurvy,” she sipped hers carefully, “If you drink it often.”

“Guess I’ve had worse coffee,” that morning, in fact. He took another sip of the brew, grimacing but getting used to it.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You can ask.”

“How many men have you killed?”

“Seventy-two,” Blondie has kept count of every damn bullet. Sue’s face remained impassive, for the moment.

“And him?”

“More. Probably a lot more,” Blondie didn’t know if Angel kept count. _Figure he might, though._

She drained the last of her moss-coffee and set it down on the counter, “Alright. Another question. Who's he to you?”

“Who's she to you?” Blondie figured it was time to turn the questions on her.

“My partner. And my lover.”

He coughed on the quirley for a moment. She raised an eyebrow, maybe thinking she’d misjudged him, but daring him to say something disparaging. _Guess she was thinking we were something of the same._

“Yeah. Guess you could call us that,” Blondie figured they were both, and neither.

“Hm,” she cast a wary look back to Angel Eyes, “So you don’t know the answer to that question. Well. You’re sticking around?”

“Sure.” Blondie considered her first comment carefully. It was odd thinking of Angel being anyone’s anything. _Not a lot of space in his world of gods and angels._ But hell, it had been many miles together. Partners was probably the least of what one could reasonably call them. Blondie pushed that thought to the back of his mind, sucking hard on the quirley.

“I meant what I said. Tweechik can’t support more strangers. You’ve got riches in your bags that’d get you anywhere in the West, and they might room you here for what’s left of the summer. But when the cold weather hits, town’s gotta eat. And everyone has a share in that, everyone’s part of the caribou cycle in some way or other.”

“What, like we’re Indians in a tribe or something?”

“No,” Sue’s gaze was somewhere between fierce and sad, “Nothing like that. But we all got jobs to do. _Naa’in_ as we are.”

“Alright,” Blondie frowned, not daring to ask about that word. _Didn’t know what to expect coming up here, but hell. At least this will keep things interesting._

“So what was his, the dead man?”

“Carver hunted, contrary to his name. And seeing as you both can shoot, at least one of you will be a reasonable replacement,” she acted like the matter was already settled but Blondie didn't see any reason to protest.

“Yeah, and what do you do?”

“I also hunt. Along with two others. But the caribou hit the tundra nearing September. Soon. We’ll need at least another. Maybe two,” she collected his empty mug, “So come by tomorrow, after you're settled. We’ll see what to make of you.”

The damp had found its back into Blondie’s bones as they rode back to the town center. The saloon, at least, was easy enough to find, and easy to know where to keep the horses too. They booked one room with a bed for two, and with only a minor squint, no comment from the wizened old clerk. _They seem to be used to strange characters in this town._

The room was darker than they tended to be in the west, smaller windows to keep the heat in, and with a small stove in the corner, just like in the abandoned jail. Angel wasted no time pulling the curtains shut, stripping off his wet clothes with the same practical impropriety that Blondie has gotten used to by now. Blondie got the fire going before stripping down as well, rubbing his hands next to the stove.

“So.”

“Type of killing I haven’t seen before."

“Did she want you to find him?”

“I think she’s as interested in finding him as I am. Or her, I suppose, no sense being sure the killer is a man, in these parts," he laid out the wet clothes along the floor, "You ever met a woman like that before, Blondie?”

“Never,” Blondie rubbed the bare flesh of his arms. _The thought of anyone who could make friends with Angel is strange enough, much less a woman who’s a surgeon._ Blondie realized then he wasn’t sure if he could call he and Angel friends. _Probably would have to._

“Picked the right place, I'd say,” Angel had reclined on to the bed and was lighting up his pipe. Blondie gave him a once-over, smiling just a bit when Angel did the same. When he rolled over to wrap the blanket round his shoulders, Blondie admired his ass, losing his train of thought for the moment. Angel smirked. _Sonofabitch._

“It’s interesting, I’ll give you that,” Blondie fished the kettle out of his bag, deciding coffee was necessary to rinse the taste of moss from his mouth, “You gonna sleep?”

“In a minute,” he gestured with the lit pipe, but had one eye on Blondie’s fussing with the pot. _So he was serious about that one._

Blondie didn’t speak much while the water boiled, taking out a quirley of his own. Once it was steaming, he took it off and waited, “Be about a half a minute. Then you add it.”

Angel just grunted in agreement, eyes lidded, “How much of the grounds?”

“Four for half the pot, eight for it full,” Blondie kept the quirley tight between his teeth as he poured it. The steam was warm next to his bare skin, “Wait a bit, stir again. Then wait again, same amount of time. Minute or so. Then it’s better. But it’s still pretty shit.”

“ _Venumem bibere in--_ “ Angel stifled a yawn, “I’m not sure you could call that gold. But that’s interesting enough.”

“Yeah,” Blondie poured the finished coffee, considering all that had happened that day. Despite walking in on a murder, it was Sue’s question that had him pulling a face as he sipped the coffee. _I really didn’t think what I was getting into, coming up here with him._ The thought of meeting his past self, somehow explaining this made Blondie unexpectedly dizzy. _Then again. Not the first decision I still can’t explain._

 _Not even close._ He turned to ask how or why Angel had even thought of going North, much less with him, but the question died in his throat. True to his word, Angel Eyes had indeed dropped off to sleep. _Bastard looks far too innocent when he sleeps._ Blondie supposed snakes were the same way. Coiled up tight and with the rattle’s poison safely camouflaged. He pushed that train of thought back with a grimace. Too many reminders of who Angel was gave Blondie waking nightmares, gunfights, cliff tumbles, an old, shared noose. _But he is, all of that._

It was the best and worst part about the man. Blondie tugged the remainder of the blanket over himself, settling in to study Angel further. It was easy to envy Angel's confidence, even now. _But would he really be able to answer Sue straight?_

_I mean. What the hell am I to him?_

The evening certainly didn’t hold the answer to that question, even when Angel Eyes woke and they surveyed the place. The next morning neither. Though Angel's coffee did show an improvement. But the rest of what Sue had said -- about Old Crow, or Tweechik, as she’d called it-- was starting to take shape. There was a sparse general store, with a terse owner rather mistrustful of strangers and who sneered at the idea of gold. There were comings and goings from a smokehouse, but most folks didn’t give them a second glance. _Not that there are too many of them here._

Blondie saw only one, maybe two other women in town too, and the same faces kept turning up. _Might be less than fifty people in this whole town._ When they get to Sue and Castellan’s, she was  waiting outside with a cynical air of impatience.

“Morning might be something different in the West, but out here means sunrise.”

She looked at them as if expecting an apology. Neither of them spoke. She shook her head and picked up two heavy rifles. “We’re after small game today, but you can get used to these.”

Blondie took the gun from her doubtfully, feeling the weight of it settle on his shoulder as they set off. He'd hunted in the desert only a handful of times, gotten lucky a few of those. It was near impossible to find any game out in the desert, and Blondie had stuck to what he was good at-- just shooting. _Not that it was a good thing._

“Peter, George,” Sue nodded respectfully to two men who greet her as they pass out of town. The men carried long guns like theirs, and seemed to know Sue. _So the other hunters._

“Who's these fellas?” the more heavy set one, George, fixed the both of them with an unfriendly stare.

“We’ll see, won't we?”

“You got poor Jack Carver ’s replacement so early? Or one of em?” Peter was skinnier than Blondie would expect, for a hunter, but was carrying a snatch of what looked like rabbit, and something with long quills. _Strange game. Strange as anything else up here._

“Keep your smarts to the trail, Peter,” she waved him off, but not unkindly, “I'll see you all at the rites tonight. And maybe then I'll know.”

It was some kind of sign that neither of the hunters asked for their names, for the moment.

They arrived at the forest on the edge of town, Sue stating a few types of game to look out for. Angel looked a little out of his element carrying the heavy gun, boots loud in the frost speckling the shadows of the forest floor. Blondie had expected it to be icy all the time here, but the summers seemed to be more like the bad winters in the West.

“Wait em out?” Blondie asked Sue warily, and she nodded.

“Try to move as little as possible.”

“Right.”

A crackle in the bush set both of them on edge -- Angel narrowed his eyes and pulled out his Remington from its holster, shooting at nothing for a moment. The resounding _bang!_ echoed through the trees. A man might have run. But whatever the animal was didn’t show itself.

“You’re trying to outthink a human. Animals don't think like humans,” Sue cocked her head at Angel. He nodded gruffly. Blondie listens, and tries to think as a rabbit would. The noise had come from just to the east of them. _The rabbits here don’t fear gunshots. So what do they fear?_

He took a chance to step forward. Sue frowned, but didn’t stop him. He shouldered the large gun, keeping one hand close to his Navy. _It’s not like a man, but-- I know where my skills lie._ He stepped closer, one foot at a time. Watching. After the thirty-third step, a white flash jumps out of a bush. Blondie’s draw was as quick as ever, quick enough even to catch the blur of white fur by the neck.

He smiled a little when he turned back to Angel and Sue. She looked a bit surprised, and Angel just smirked approvingly. _So maybe the game’s not so strange here after all_ . _Feels better, in any case._

“Not a bad trick, for small game. You’ll have to learn some new ones for the _vadzaih_ , the caribou,” she picked up the rabbit, “It’s lean. Not worth much to bring in, but we may as well eat between the three of us.”

The three of them worked silently to build a fire, at Sue's direction. She also seemed impressed with their wood-foraging, but then again, they had made it all the way up the coast trail to the north. _Even in the summer, a good fire is what makes camp._  When the fire had a safe crackle, their attention turned to Blondie's catch-- and to lunch. 

Sue took out a knife to slit open the snow-white hare, but it dug in at the neck too hard, and she cursed in that strange tongue Blondie remembered from yesterday. Angel took a knife out from his left boot, taking the animal from her and effortlessly cutting it open.

“You don’t sharpen it that much, do you?”

“Castellan tells me that,” she shook her head, but let Angel continue gutting the beast, “And you don’t hunt much?”

“You could call what I used to do hunting,” he pulled out the entrails smoothly while she took out a pan from her pack. _So now she’s sizing him up._

“Blondie might be better at this kind,” she said it casually, but watched Angel’s reaction. Blondie watched his face shift from slightly annoyed to considering. Angel always had a way of making Blondie feel as if he wanted Blondie to be better-- _not good, of course._ _But like he’s looking for something I can do like he does._

Blondie wished he had given up wanting certain talents Angel Eyes found effortless.

“He does alright,” was all Angel said, finally. Blondie didn’t know how to take that but couldn’t help the smile on his face. Sue noticed too, smiled back at both of them.

“And you’re good with the knives,” she plucked a strip of cooked rabbit meat straight from the pan, “So there’s a good chance there’s space here for you both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Naa’in_ \- children of Naa'in, those expelled from the tribe for committing a crime
> 
>  _Tweechik_ \- Sue's self-deprecating play on words for Teechik, the real Gwitchin settlement much further north. The meaning of Teechik is Old Crow. 
> 
> _Venumem bibere in aura_ \- Drink poison from gold, loosely.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter :) I especially have a soft spot for Sue and Castellan, and would love to hear thoughts on them. <3


	3. Warmed by a fire fed by bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: blood stuff (blood typing? sorta?), discussion of past medical mispractice, discussion of murder, fighting (not physical), alcohol abuse, poor coping, frostbite, aftermath of that.
> 
> In spite of that, this is a really nice chapter and gave me a lot of feelings. Shoutout to the westfic folks, and especially stephantom, whose discussions of Blondie really helped make this chapter go smoothly :) Latin translations to follow.

“We’ve seen all kind of omens since then.”

Angel's dark, almost bitter words jar Blondie from his reminiscing. He looks up, meeting Angel’s eyes and realizing that they were probably thinking of the same memories. _That's what happens when you share them._

“We have, yeah.”

Blondie returns his attention to his cards. A full house gives him the next pot, jacks over twos. _So the score is about even._ Their legs have wandered closer together in the time between, not touching. But the presence is there, sure as the distant warmth of the fire.

The wind is still howling gently outside, but the storm is starting to settle. The whisper and murmur of the weather patterns Blondie knows well by know. _Doesn’t take long to get that figured out._ He shuffles and deals again, considering the space and time between then and now. _Things stayed alright longer than I thought they would._

“The September caribou hunt,” Blondie grapples for a bright memory, “That was good.”

“You and Sue bringing in the first kill of the season. And she was surprised.”

“You weren't?”

“Mm. Was surprised you two weren't at each other's throats first,”

“I was surprised you and Castellan didn't murder someone else, show him how it was done,” Blondie smirks to himself before he catches just how grim that humor is. Angel is smiling though. _God. Can’t believe I’m starting to sound like him._

“ _Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit,_ ” Angel shakes his head, seeming distant again. Blondie taps the ash from his quirley, frowning.

“What does that mean?”

“Perhaps, someday, we will look upon these things with joy.”

“Oh,” thing is, Blondie does remember those memories fondly. _That's probably not what he means, though._ His gaze lingers on Angel’s collarbone for a moment, the livid scar just barely visible beneath his shirt. It scares Blondie, how much he wants to touch it. Angel always makes him want to do things that scare him. _Can I call that a good thing?_

Angel turns over the last card of the flop. Then he takes the pot, with a straight mixed by spades and clubs. The fire is burning a little lower now, though still throwing a decent amount of heat. Blondie pulls off his gloves, shrugs open his coat.

“It made sense for a while, didn’t it?” Angel mumbles the question at his hand, quiet yet certain. Blondie glances up to meet Angel’s gaze. It burns like a hard gulp of whiskey.

“Yeah. It did,” he has to admit that now. They’re getting dangerously close to what Blondie knows is coming. _So should I ask him to shoot straight and be done with it?_

“You're not here for cards.”

Angel shakes his head, opens his mouth, then closes it again. He takes a sip of his own whiskey, not looking afraid, but with none of the confidence Blondie is used to. _God, seeing him off-balance is strange. Even when I’d found him in the cave, back in the desert-- there was so much fight in him then._ Blondie isn’t sure what Angel needs to say, but he isn’t out for blood. _And he came to say it this time._

_That’s something._

“S’okay we can. Play a little longer,” if this is a goodbye, Blondie doesn't want it to end. Might be painful to think of it that way, but he hasn't felt much of anything for a month.

“Yeah. Alright,” Angel looks strangely relieved. For once, Blondie doesn't push the thought to the back of his mind, doesn't force the concern to the pit of his stomach. Just lets the feeling settle over him. _Hell, what else can I do now? I've done the worst of it and still. Here we are._

_Whatever the hell that means._

Angel taps his right hand next to the two waiting cards of the flop, the nervous movement unlike him. Blondie reaches his hand forward, just carefully. Slowly touches one finger to the stump of Angel’s missing fingertip. His shoulders twitch nervously, but he doesn’t move away. Blondie meets his eyes. _There’s another memory._

He tightens his lips white around the pipe, “Do you remember what Castellan said. About Sue. You were awake then, weren’t you.”

“I was.”

“She was right,” he shakes his head helplessly, avoiding Blondie’s gaze, “She’s always right.”

It's as close to an admission, to a confession, that he's ever gotten from Angel and yet. _That's still not what he came here to say._ Blondie studies the whiskey, thinking back to that bitter night. Sue’s frantic concern. Castellan’s resigned anger. Angel’s eagerness that he hated even then, and another murder at their doorstep. He laces their fingers together, keeping one finger pressed on the scar. Blondie could say that wound started then, perhaps. With the second body.

It had been three months in Tweechik by then, long enough for the weather to turn white, for the howl of the wind to scrape skin to sandpaper on the worst days, and for a few hunts of caribou to have come and gone. _None as good as they shoulda been._

Blondie was smoking at Sue’s table again, waiting for her to return and plan the next hunting expedition. His belly was tight from scarce food in the past week. Things weren't bad yet. _But they sure as hell could be better._ The snowbanks were several feet high, at least wood was still plenty. According to Sue they hadn't seen a really bad storm yet. _Whatever those other storms were._

Castellan and Angel were shooting the shit in the other room. Blondie could see from where he was sitting they were doing something medical, or mildly grisly. _Having their fun, looks like._ Sue was used to it, and hell, by now Blondie was too.

“Blondie,” Angel beckoned him over. Blondie sucked on his quirley and stood up.

“What's this?”

Castellan had the large table out that the body had lain on months before. This time it was covered with an assortment of containers, more glass than Blondie had ever seen in his life.

“Blood work,” Castellan tapped with a clean, sharp syringe, “Can I take yours?”

“Why?” Blondie trusted her by now, hell, the whole town had to. _Still a hell of a thing to ask for._

“Never know when it might save your life.”

He shrugged, offered her his arm. Angel studied him carefully from across the room. It was interesting, Blondie had always thought, that someone whose business was saving lives could be close with someone whose business was taking them. _Or old business._ For the moment, Angel had adapted to carver’s work well, or at least that and learning from Castellan seemed to hold his interest.

 _Wonder what she learns from him._ He winced when the needle jabbed into him, but made no sound. She took more than he expected. _Funny to see it all in one place._ Blondie was used to blood, for certain, but used to it as a mess, or a reason to panic. This was cool, clean and neat in a way that made his skin crawl.

She poured the vial into a metal and wooden apparatus with a wheel and crank. Angel seemed to know to begin turning while she stemmed the bleeding. Angel shot him a macabre grin as the wheel spun faster and faster.

“One minute longer,” Castellan stated. _God, this is something, but -- I can see why it makes him curious. This some kind of witchcraft?_

It seemed stranger yet than that, when Castellan extracted a second vial from the device. The blood had separated into a murky crimson at the bottom and a vivid yellow at the top. She nodded approvingly, using a second syringe to drop the yellow fluid into separate containers, mixing it systematically with what may be other blood.

“From what I can see, you match with Sue. We’ll know it a moment if she matches with you. I've never met anyone who didn't match with her.”

“What do you mean, match?”

“Means you can take her blood without it killing you-- same blood in your veins, or something like it,” Angel smiled his devil’s grin again. Blondie fought the urge to punch him, but just playfully.

“So like we’re related or somethin’?”

“I highly doubt it,” Castellan reaches a longer syringe down to the thick red liquid beneath, “Many people have the same blood just as the same hair color. Angel Eyes, for instance, matches with Sue and I and possibly you. Yes. Sue matches with him but neither of us match him. So the nature of his blood is the same as Sue’s. And I highly doubt a Gwitchin native has any relation to a European American.”

“How'd you know all this?” Blondie was admittedly a little surprised this wasn't some form of witchcraft.

“My mentor knew a lot about blood. He studied blood loss and blood as life. The way surgeons ought to use it,” she spoke objectively, but it was clear she was fond of him, “He came up with this idea from churning butterfat.”

“Hell of a thing. Teaching a woman to be a surgeon,” Blondie mused before realizing that might be a rude thing to say, “Uh.”

“Not intentional. I was one of his test subjects. But since I took an interest. And I'm less fragile than I look,” she smiled her glass smile at Blondie. _God above. Guess she’s one of the survivors._ Blondie pinched his lips, wishing for a quirley. _Is that why she’s used to murderers?_ No sooner did that thought cross his mind when the door slammed open, Sue looking haggard and grim.

“There's been another attack. This time Jim.”

Blondie's stomach dropped. Jim was the other carver in town, though by now Angel was almost better at it. _If he kills any more…_ Blondie didn't want to think about it. He took out a quirley, hoping for a bit of calm. Castellan was at Sue’s side, rubbing her back gently while she swore.

“He was dead before Peter found him, long dead,” she swore again, “Why now? Why in the winter?”

“Sue. We should consider…”

“I know what you think, and what Angel thinks.”

“We know now, I'd say,” Angel jerked his head at the blood taking apparatus, “Or sure enough.”

“Know what?” Blondie asked, frustration starting to build in him.

“The killer. The huntsman who wants to be the beast,” Angel rolled his eyes, “It’s George.”

Blondie nearly fumbled the match. _God above. But if Angel Eyes says it's true…_

“How long have you known?”

“You didn’t tell him?” Sue closed her eyes, looking distant from the self assured leader Blondie was used to. _The hell is going on?_

“Thought you didn’t want anyone to know,” Angel half-smirked in an offhand way. Blondie wanted to punch the smirk off his face. Not playfully.

“Yes, but. Alright. I'm sorry, Blondie-- you deserved to know,” she looked unsure for a moment, then hardened her gaze, “Assuming it is George--”

“It is - -” Angel cut in.

“The reality is that...he is the best hunter we’ve got. Losing others is unforgivable. But if we have to kill George, or at least jail him...there’s a long winter yet. And to know what really happened will cause panic, which will cause more injuries. Everyone believes both to be a bear attack for now, and that's easier to worry about.”

“With this murder it might be worry enough he will kill again,” Castellan stated it calmly enough, but from the pinch of her brow she was as worried as Sue.

“I've seen what starvation can do to a tribe. It will create two more like him if we can't eat.”

“He's not eating them, is he?” Blondie felt sick to his stomach. _This is too much, too fast._

Sue shook her head and Castellan dropped her hand, gazing out to the snow covered landscape, “It's an insanity not borne from hunger, and likely contributes to his talent as a hunter.”

“We can survive at least another month if we bring in two caribou. Three would be better,” Sue unpinned her long hair, running her fingers through it.

“This including feeding George? Shouldn't need to,” Angel half-smirked, studying the set of knives.

“Angel Eyes,” Blondie shot him a glare.

“I'm just going over practicalities.”

“Be quiet, both of you,” Sue’s voice was cold and brittle. It didn't look like Castellan’s comfort was doing much good.

Castellan’s face hardened, “You should leave. Sue will decide what comes next.”

Blondie wanted to protest, but Angel Eyes was already tugging on his coat, raising an eyebrow at him. _It's not your decision._ Blondie tried to tell himself that, but it was almost surprising however much that thought grated on him. He barely said a word to Angel as they worked their way back through the knee deep snow. _And to think I was starting to feel this place had more of a law about it than the West._ Blondie was sick with disillusionment, and the worst of it was the feeling was all too familiar.

They finally made it down to the road and back to the saloon at last. The wind was starting to gather for a light storm tonight. Blondie felt that in his soul. As soon as the door to their room closed, Blondie let out a hard, frustrated exhale.

“God above. This is. This is impossible.”

Angel shrugged, taking off his coat and reaching for his pipe, “Not so different from the company you used to keep.”

“He's killing people like he's a bear. That's--”

“Excessive?”

“Unnatural,” the word sounded stupid even to Blondie himself.

“Sue's right. He brings in the hunt. So what can we do? _Corvus oculum corvi non eruit,_ ” Angel blew out some smoke. _Sonofabitch, how can he be so calm?_

_Right, he lived with this for two months and didn't say a damn thing to me._

“God above, Angel. We can't just do nothing.”

“I didn’t decide this. And Sue might not yet either. I would have thought you'd been happy, given how often you hesitate to take a life,” Angel smirked, as he so often did about death. God, Blondie was sick of that.

“You know it's different, he killed these people for hunt, for sport. He deserves to die.”

“And you decide that, do you?” Angel’s teasing verged on mocking. _God I cannot take this shit right now._

“I don't decide anything.”

“Don't you? No. You've decided who lives and who dies every time you take out your Navy. Sure it's good and safe now that it's rabbit and caribou, but you play god every time you point that gun at another person and you damn well know it, so why don't you decide?”

“Shut up,” Blondie said through gritted teeth, but Angel wasn't done yet.

“You would have said I deserved to die, and yet here we are.”

“Sometimes I wish I'd killed you then,” he hated how true that was, how he could never seem to decide what to feel about Angel. _Because he damn well likes it that way._

“And why didn't you?” Angel laughed, smiled like the devil himself, “Not that I'm complaining, you were the one with the death wish.”

Blondie clenched his fists till his nails dug into the flesh of his palm, hating Angel, hating the casual way he could throw life around. _Who the hell are you to play god, angel and the devil? How can you act like it means nothing? Not feel any of it?_

Angel leaned forward, showing his teeth around the pipe, “You know what I think? I think you wanted to kill me, even then. And that's exactly why you didn't.”

“Damn you to hell,” Blondie’s nails do draw blood then. _Isn't this the same way this conversation went before?_

“I don't understand you at all, Blondie.”

“Yeah? Then what the hell are we doing here?”

Blondie did catch a glimmer of satisfaction at the slight panic in Angel’s glance. It was replaced almost immediately by an uncomfortable stab of guilt that he didn't expect. _But hell, I deserve to feel guilty. About all of this._

Angel looked away from him with a sneer, then pulled his coat back on, dressing to go out in short, frustrated movements. Blondie did nothing. He headed for the door, then stopped short with a harsh breath out.

“I'm going to go see the body, talk to Castellan.”

Blondie couldn't care less what Angel did right now. The door slammed behind him. _God above._ The room felt suffocating all too fast. He placed his hands carelessly in his pocket, wincing when his hand caught something sharp in his pocket. The sheriff's star from when he rode in. He squeezed his eyes shut, wanting numbness. Blondie knew how to find that, if he had to.

He sat down at the bar counter, paid far too much for a bottle of whiskey, and took the first three shots with barely a breath between them. _Been a while since I’ve done anything this stupid._

And maybe that was the last time he’d gotten drunk, but what came to mind was long before that. When he'd been at a criminal’s beck and call in the parched senselessness of the desert. _I did play god, didn’t I?_ _Or at the very least, played with justice._ He took another swig. Tuco had been vengeful, for certain, and prone to cruelty.  But there had been parts of him that felt all too human. _God, and Angel doesn’t even want to be human._

He'd liked Tuco, in some ways. Angel’s words about _a death wish_ murmured through his head. Blondie told himself every time he didn't kill him that - - it was a second chance, a way out. For Tuco, who'd been dealt a bad hand. Maybe for him too.

 _I thought I'd made peace with that before._ But then again, everything that was grey stood out more against the stark white of the snow. It had been easier to hide in the unforgiving burn of the desert, with its faceless criminals and neverending trails. 

He couldn’t hide here from the visceral memory of how good it had felt, just for a moment, taking the shot, watching Tuco fall. _Did he deserve that? Was it revenge or justice?_ He remembered the sickening aftermath just as vividly, waiting for Angel Eyes to return fire.

_But he never did. He still hasn’t._

Blondie took another gulp of whiskey, clenching and unclenching his fist at the table. It didn't escape his thoughts that the last time he was that drunk was because of Angel as well. _When I thought he was dead._ A horrifying thought surfaced through the murk of the alcohol. _What if George is targeting carvers-- if he goes after Angel._

Though he knew even through his haze it was a terrible idea, his skin was hot from the whiskey. And terrible ideas had always been what threw Blondie out of a bad place. _Maybe into a worse one_. It was a moment of clarity he’d shoved aside as he pulled his coat on, stumbling out into the silently falling snow.

The whole night was quiet, or perhaps that was just the thick buzz in his ears. It was a half-dark, that of the midnight sun. The winding road became an unfamiliar canvas of shadowed white, every snowbank the same as the last. _That their house?_

He fumbled his steps with a yell, watching the light he thought was from Castellan’s lantern. Lying upward, looking at the sky, he realized it was the reflection of northern lights’ flicker. _They’re so beautiful._ A strange sense of peace settled over him.

 _It's alright I'll just. Rest a minute._ He still felt warm, too warm almost. The snow was soft and there was a fuzzy ringing in his ears. _Was that a voice?_ Time started to feel strange, slower somehow. The stars blinked back under his gaze. _I should get up but - -_ the thought itself was distant.

“Blondie. Blondie,” there was a strange, rough touch to his face, cursing in what could be English. Then came a different touch, far too warm. Bare skin against the bitter winter wind. _Sue would say that was real stupid,_ Blondie's thoughts felt outside of him. A gentle slap to his face. He mumbled something indistinct.

There was desperate rummaging in the snow beside him, some kind of muffled cursing. Blondie knew that voice, but his mind felt like it was calling against the waves of a vast ocean. Something shimmered in front of his eyes, the hand again, colder now, at his throat.

“You idiot,” the voice said again. Angel Eyes.

Before Blondie could react, there was an arm thrown roughly underneath where his armpit ought to be, though it didn’t feel quite right. He was wrenched to his feet with desperate urgency. He was half walked, half dragged against the snow towards a warm light in the distance. It took longer than he expected, or perhaps that was just the odd sense of time.

“Castellan! Castellan!” Angel’s voice rang in Blondie’s ears. The door opened. More light.

“Damn it,” she said quietly, “Sue! Get a bath going!”

Then there was another pair of hands at his side, and before he could blink, he was inside the familiar house, the warmth of it almost oppressive.

“Get him out of those frozen clothes,” Castellan said softly.

Angel worked on the buttons faster than Blondie had ever seen, but with a strange clumsiness that made Blondie feel like he should help somehow. _I'm cold._ He realized all of a sudden. Then he was led forcibly to the bed in the corner of the room, his thoughts starting to take shape again. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate, as he lay down.

There was an indistinct, quiet moan. It took Blondie a moment to realize it came from him. The space on the bed compresses next to him, someone talking his arms and rubbing them with hands that felt oddly clammy. _Is that what hands feel like?_

“Stop, that's going to burn him,” Castellan’s voice sounded distant and dreamlike, “Lie down next to him. I'm going to put him in warm water, but he’ll go into shock if we put him in too fast.”

Blondie abstractly recognized the smell and weight of Angel’s body next to his. He wanted to turn and roll into the shape of him but his limbs still weren’t responding properly. The arms around him were nice, if far too warm somehow. He wondered if he could open his eyes.

“Just stay like that. Sue has the water almost warm enough. He was drinking?”

Angel grunted softly, but there was none of the old bite in it. It could be closer to a moan. Opening his eyes was something that seemed...distinctly terrifying now. _Do I want to see his face?_

Blondie wished to god his insides were as numb as the rest of him. But the feeling was starting to come back, the feeling of someone breathing close to his neck. He shifted his arm slightly, to make their positions more comfortable.

“He moved,” Angel’s voice was raspy and strange.

“He’s alive, of course he can move. And I’m reasonably sure he’s conscious, if still not perceptive due to the alcohol,” Castellan was ever factual, but there was something different in her voice.

A brief silence settled over the room in which there was only the sound of Angel breathing, the sound of Blondie’s own breathing.

“Do you know how I knew I cared about Sue?”

“How?” his response was barely a whisper. _But he still asked._ Blondie doesn’t know what to make of that.

“I don’t like to see her in pain. Never have.”

Blondie’s eyes did flicker open in shock then, meeting Angel’s just briefly. _God above. What the hell did I just do?_ He forced them shut and blinked blearily, to create the suggestion of poor awareness. It was too similar to the look he had, face down in the floor and haunted in the rot of the sheriff’s office. _It’s not wisdom. It’s pain in his eyes. Shit_.

Thank god footsteps entered the room in that moment, Sue with good news, “I think I’ve got the bath ready. We’ll know soon if we’ll have to cut off any of his fingers, toes. Or worse”

Angel sat up beside him, and Blondie feels that strange, clammy touch on his neck and jaw again. Somewhere between threatening and reverent.

“Your hand. Angel Eyes - -”

“I didn't notice,” he said it so strangely that Blondie chanced a look again, saw the angry red swelling on Angel’s right hand. _Jesus. Might be worse than me._

“That's bad,” Castellan sounded more frustrated than Blondie had ever heard her, “Sue, take care of Blondie, please. And set aside some water.”

Sue threw her arm underneath Blondie and dragged him upright to walk to the kitchen. She was much warmer than Angel, but didn’t walk as fast as when she brought him to the wooden tub. His limbs still felt thick and clumsy, but he could stand steadily enough while she stripped his clothes off. She glanced away when he became  completely naked, and settled in to the tub, the water rising up to his neck. She leaned against the counter, exhaling hard.

“God, you two are idiots. Did the cold sober you up? Didn’t I tell you drinking isn’t worth shit up here?” her voice was hard, but more panicked than he was used to hearing.

“M’alright.”

“Don’t make it out to be nothing, Blondie, you could have died. Or at least lost a whole hand,” she shook her head, keeping Blondie’s gaze,

“You’re not just a good hunter, I’d call you a friend of mine. I’d hate to lose you when all of…. this is happening. God knows what it would do to Angel Eyes.”

“The hell does he have to do with this?” Blondie mumbled, trying to seem detached.

“God help me,” she practically rolled her eyes. But she relented when he avoided her gaze, “Did he hurt you any?”

Blondie didn't know how to take that question.

“Did he?”

“No, he just. Look. I just. I shouldn't drink.”

“You shouldn't, but. Don't blame yourself. Was it about the murders?”

Blondie nodded slowly.

She shook her head, “If there's blood, it's on me.”

“It's on all of us.”

“I want to wait out a little longer,” she paused, flexing her fingertips for a moment, "Looks like your fingers and toes are alright. You're lucky."

"Yeah. Guess so."

“You think it's the right thing?”

He knew what was still on her mind. He tipped his head back, not wanting to answer that. But he always knew what he would say.

“I think you're right. It's the only thing we can do.” 

She exhaled a long time. Blondie hadn't realized how much she needed to hear that. _Giving someone what they needed._ He thought back to the dying soldier he'd offered a quirley to, the last time he'd felt quite like this. _Been a long time._

“Thanks, Blondie,” she stood up, studied him doubtfully, “You and Angel Eyes gonna be okay?”

“Guess I don't see why we wouldn't be.”

“Blondie,” Sue tilted her head at him, “I know you're almost frostbitten but god. You can't do this forever. I don't even know how you both have survived this long.”

“Okay,” he said it just to get her to leave.

“At least say something.”

 _Something about what?_ He wanted to ask her then, but she had already left the room. He rolled his neck, wishing for a quirley. _Not as bad as the desert, at least._ Now that was a grim thought.

Angel came in just before the water was starting to go lukewarm around him. Blondie blinked and squinted, mostly having a handle on consciousness by now. _No pain now, at least._ Angel grimaced like he might be in pain.

“So. All the limbs alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” he pulled over one of the kitchen chairs to sit next to the tub. Blondie squinted a little at his right hand. Angel laughed roughly, “it got me a bit, when I lost my glove. But it's not bad. Castellan cuts clean.”

He showed the bandage, bloody at the tip of his middle finger. _God above._ Blondie turned away, guilt choking at the numbness in his chest faster than he thought possible, but just as suddenly there was a hand at his neck, angry clumsy lips sucking his breath away.

Angel kissed violently, as he always did, but there was something desperate in it. Blondie shifted forward without thinking about it, the water suddenly tipping over to splash on the wooden floor. Neither of them noticed for a blessed minute. Then Angel seemed to come to a realization, pulling his warmth away just as suddenly. Blondie stared at the mess of Angel’s right hand, feeling strangely hollow.

“I'd do it again if I had to,” Angel didn't look at him, or rather, kept his eyes trained on Blondie’s shoulder, “I was an idiot too.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't, alright?”

“I'm sorry,” Blondie said again, because there seemed to be nothing else to say and his lips felt stuck and stupid from the alcohol and god he knew Angel didn't want to hear it but it was still there, wasn't it? _Doesn't that count for something? God, he's never getting that finger back and I - -_

“Stop thinking,” Angel said softly, placing his right hand on the edge of the tub. Blondie gave in, put his hand overtop of the bandages. Rested his head next to their hands, the soft smell of wet cedar wood and Angel’s skin a balm for the slight pain in his head. After a time, the weight of Angel’s head rested against his.

They stayed that way until the water was cold. When Blondie finally dried off and Angel helped him dress, it was well past midnight. Sue and Castellan were up in the medical room, speaking in soft voices and standing close together.

“I left some water by the bed in the practice. Drink all of it before you sleep,” Castellan jerked her head towards the other room.

“I think I can--”

“Don't be stupid, Blondie,” Sue cut in to his protest, “You should stay at least one night, here. Castellan will see how you are tomorrow. You too, Angel Eyes.”

She smiled tiredly at them. _I guess we can't argue with that._ Angel’s left arm was still slung under his, keeping him supported. Blondie nodded his thanks to Sue’s back as she retired with Castellan to the bedroom. Then Angel settled him onto the bed, pulling the blankets overtop of them both. It was dark and easy to avoid eye contact. But even in the tight quarters of the bed, Blondie kept closer than he needed to.

“Don't do that again,” Angel turned his face away, taking Blondie’s arm with him, “And I won't.”

“Yeah,” Blondie pressed his forehead to the exposed flesh of Angel’s neck, “Okay.”

Sleep engulfed him mercifully quickly.

The next morning he woke quite late. The sun was high in the sky and it was just him in the small bed. Blondie blinked, feeling paradoxically colder than he had lying in the snowbank. His head didn't hurt too much at least. He pulled on his jacket and headed for the kitchen.

“Where's Angel?”

“He wanted to go out. There's work for him to do. Couldn't stop him,” Sue was still in the kitchen, working over an infusion of herbs for Castellan’s strange medicines. She offered him a cup of the moss drink, which he took gratefully. She paused.

“George brought in a caribou. Alone.”

_Shit. Of course he did._

“Right. So we have food now, that's. Good. The right call.”

“Right.”

A grim silence fell over them as they studied the snow out the tiny window. In hindsight, before this moment, Tweechik had seemed almost innocent. Bloodless compared to the west. _Shoulda known I couldn't outrun that._ But despite feeling a little shaky in the bones, Blondie doesn't feel quite as lost.

“One more hunt. If we can bring something in, then. He’ll answer for what he did,” she closed her eyes, and Blondie envied her and truly didn't. He envied her decisiveness.

But this time, he thought he felt somewhat ready to match that.

“We take him with us on the hunt. And keep a close eye on him till then. I can do that.”

“You sure, Blondie?”

He took a bitter draught of the mug, surveying the town,“I don't look at it as much of a choice.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translations:
> 
>  _Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit_ \- Pretty much what Angel said. Attributed to Virgil.
> 
>  _Corvus oculum corvi non eruit_ \- A crow will not gouge out the eyes of another crow. Colloquially, "honour among thieves", or in this case murderers. This was the inspiration for the title of the fic. 
> 
> The device Castellan is messing around with is meant to be a sort of proto-centrifuge, which separates blood into plasma and red blood cells, which allows her to type their blood by mixing plasma and red blood cells in pairs. 
> 
> Lee van Cleef, the actor who plays Angel Eyes, is missing the top digit of his middle finger. This actually figures in GBU so this explanation is off canon, but I liked it and never noticed the missing finger in GBU. So there you have it :)
> 
> I hope you had fun with the interesting turn on a murder-mystery. Not exactly a mystery, is it? but certainly has the tension of one :D Let me know what you thought of it in the comments, love to hear from people and having a great time writing this <3


	4. With blood stark against fallen snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: scar discussion, murder, very very ill-advised bloodplay, knifekink, dangerplay, generally these two being edgelords DO NOT try this at home. 
> 
> Latin / Gwitchin translations to follow. Thanks to Bec (cudvac.tumblr) for their help with this chapter, specifically the concepting that helped inspire the knife play scene.

A flush of spades.

That gives Angel Eyes the pot, breaking contact with Blondie’s hand to gather up the cards again. A chill lies in his absence. The fire by now is in need of a few more logs, and the patrons have thinned out further, now that the storm is subsiding.

Blondie eyes the coins he has remaining-- some of them may well have been Angel’s share of the gold to begin with. There aren’t that many left. _So. Time to cut my losses._ Angel has already started dealing the next hand. He hasn’t said a word since bringing up what Castellan had said. _Not a damn thing about what came after._

Blondie checks his hand, one king of hearts, one jack of spades. He doesn't know what to do with the knowledge that Angel doesn't like seeing him in pain. _Guess I mighta known that but…._ The line between pain and pleasure has always been a frantic blur for them both.

The flop lays out diamonds. Blondie figures he should say something, seeing as Angel has been avoiding his gaze.

“Castellan-- so she was right about you. And about me, too. Um. But you were right about George. Still don't know how you knew it was him,” he realizes after he mumbles it that comparing knowledge of murder and knowledge of caring might be a strange thing to do. Angel half-laughs, somewhere between nervousness and relief. _Of course he wouldn’t find it strange._

Angel pushes his bet forward, “I’d like to say that one was obvious, even though Castellan was thorough once I suggested it. Between the bone collecting and the surly obsession, weren’t a lot of others it could be.”

“Yeah. His house kind of gives it away.”

“That too,” Angel smirks easily. Blondie gets the sense he hasn’t changed the decor one bit. Angel pushes his bet forward, nudging his leg next to Blondie’s. His mustache turns up slightly, the way he does when he’s about to ask a pointed question.

“Did you know he’d go after you, on the last hunt?”

“You did,” Blondie fixes him with a discerning stare.

“Of course, but did you?”

There’s a lot that’s unspoken behind that-- normally Angel would push harder, to the knife edge of the dangerous talk. ‘ _Were you waiting to kill him?’_ He’d ask. Or worse yet, ‘ _were you looking forward to it?’_ But he waits, this time. Just considers his hand, rests his ankle next to Blondie’s boot.

“Yeah, guess I did. I was waiting for it. Wanted a reason,” Blondie can admit that to himself, now. It’s Angel who bore the weight of that crime, or the desire for it. _Always blurring those lines, too._ He shakes his head, and at least now there’s no guilt in it _, not about that._

“What’s that shit you'd say? _Facilis descensus averno._ ”

“What did you say?” Angel’s face freezes with an emotion Blondie has rarely seen from him.

“That’s the one about hell being easy, right?”

“It is,” the light from the fire hits Angel’s cheekbones, and Blondie can name the expression as wonder. _Jesus. He wears that well._ Blondie drops down his hand and takes the pot with a meager three of a kind, tens. He gathers the deck close to him, but doesn’t deal. Just shuffles, watching Angel carefully.

“Do you want to go upstairs?”

If Angel is surprised by the offer it doesn't show on his face, “Yeah.”

Blondie passes the cards back into Angel’s outstretched hand. His heart is pounding as they take the staircase in even stride with each other. Angel usually walked slightly ahead of him. _Not this time._ In the subdued murmur of the saloon, their footsteps sound thunderous to Blondie.

When he shuts the heavy wooden door behind them, Blondie has barely raised his gaze when he's tugged forward by the coat lapels, harsh lips and sharp teeth all but consuming him. He breathes it in, desperate as a drowning man, _god, did I miss this that much?_

Blondie doesn't miss that it's the same way he'd kissed Angel, the first and only time he'd killed for him. The tang of blood on his lips, teeth sinking into the inside of his mouth. He gets a breath in, meets Angel’s fevered gaze before pulling him back, sucking at the raw cuts on the inside of his mouth.

 _Angel knows it too. He's trying to make it like the first time. Is that an admission? What he came for?_ Blondie wants to lose himself in it, sink and settle into the familiar taste of blood and chaos. It's not hard to do. Until he rips off Angel's heavy coat, tears at his shirt buttons, exposing the flesh and bone beneath.

_God above._

The red and purple remnants of the scar stare back at him in the lamplight. The suture-marks  are patterned just as vividly as when they were thick with Castellan’s wolverine-gut wire. Blondie forgets to breathe for a moment, then staggers to a seat on the bed, blinking hard. Remembering too sharply how those wounds were made. When Blondie can look at Angel again, Angel has one hand on the scar and the most faraway expression.

Blondie manages to find his voice, “I can't do this. Not unless you tell me what you're after-- really. Because the last time --”

“You did what I wanted you to. I told you that,” Angel growls, but there's a strange desperation in it, “Or didn't you want it as well?”

“Wanted to kill you?”

“No - -”

“But I--”

“You didn't, though. And no, that wasn't what I wanted. I'm not going to tell you again.”

The scar is livid against Angel’s bare chest. Blondie’s desire to run his fingers along it, put his mouth to it, is almost painful. It only intensifies when Angel sits down next to him on the bed, watching him carefully.

“Tell me what you came for.” Blondie says instead. He waits, his hand shaking slightly. He grips his knees. Angel purses his lips, suddenly distant. He opens his mouth, then instead reaches for Blondie’s wrist. Raises Blondie’s hand, more carefully than he would normally. _He usually crosses a line, then steps back from it when he has to._ Angel didn't seem to want to cross any lines tonight. Not without knowing.

He hovers Blondie's hand above the scar.

Blondie closes his eyes, nods, _and how is it that he knows? Every goddamn time._ Then ever so slowly, Angel brings Blondie’s hand closer. The roughness of the skin surrounding the wound ’s ghost shocks his eyes open first. _That was the stitches._ Angel guides his hand along it slowly, half-tenderness, half macabre fascination. The second surprise is how soft the crinkle of the new skin is, white and barely aged from where the blade split it.

“Tell me how you felt, when you gave me this,” Angel traces the scar with Blondie’s hand, just along the collarbone, down to the middle of his chest, “No bullshit.”

“No bullshit?” Blondie half-laughs, half-gasps almost helplessly. But the words are surprisingly easy to find.

“Like nothing else existed. Or. Like there was nothing I couldn't destroy,”

“It was transcendent,” Angel said softly.

“I told you I can't ever--”

“No. I meant what I said. Not again,” Angel has one hand absently tracing along the lower part of the scar. As if it's become a habit, by now, “But it was enough to have it once. To remember it.”

Blondie is certain he will remember every moment of that day for the rest of his life.

The day began clear, as luck would have it. Sue had a knack for knowing when to plan the hunt such that most of the days were manageable. They'd loaded their packs heavy for one night on the trail. It was only a few hours hike to the caribou crossing this time, but it was still best to stay and watch as long as possible.

It was just Blondie and Sue in the storeroom for the moment, with George and Peter preparing and cleaning the weapons. _Fine by me, I’m tired of looking at him._ Blondie rubbed his eyes. Keeping an eye on George without being noticed was taxing, but it was almost worse when George wasn’t in his sights. _Don’t know if he’s planning to kill anyone else._ Blondie felt his gut clench with hatred. But instead, he checked the bullets in the rifles a third time, while Sue clicked her tongue but didn’t comment.

“Take these,” she produced a pair of severed caribou hooves, dried from the first hunt, “You've earned them now.”

“Thanks,” he weights the hooves carefully, recognizing them as similar to the pairs the other hunters wore, to mask their steps when stalking the caribou,  “Could have just given me Carver’s.”

“Could have. But it’s important that they're yours.”

Blondie could respect that. It seemed important to her at least, “When did you start that?”

“It's an old trick from the Gwitchin. My peoples,” she tucked her braid behind her ear, “Or they used to be.”

Blondie watched Sue’s work-roughened hands lash together her pack. He hadn't asked much about her past in the months they'd hunted together. _Hell, most of it was just her telling me what I was doing wrong._

 _Still. She did say we were friends._ Blondie couldn’t remember the last time someone had said that in a way that he could trust easily.

“You don't have to talk about them but uh. What are they like?”

“Not so different from Tweechik, now. You know I used to hate the structure of it, the rigid roles of the Gwitchin,” she shouldered her rifle, “Now I understand it all too well.”

“Yeah, I think I know that feeling.”

“You do?” she wasn't skeptical but there was a question in it. _And I guess I owe her, seeing as she answered mine._

“I hunted bounty for a bit. Hated the law for everything they weren't doing, and for never protecting anyone. Thought I could do the job better than them. And I was good, at bounty. But that's just another way of being a killer.”

She laughed, sharp and bitter, “Yeah. You do know.”

“Yeah,”  Blondie took out one of his last few quirleys, shaking off his glove to light it,“S’easier when people are telling you who ought to hang.”

“That's the truth,” she wrapped up the last few handfuls of pemmican for the trek.

“Did you leave bein an Indian-- the Gwitchin because of Castellan?” Blondie let that question slip out without meaning to. She paused, her brow furrowed.

“That depends. Are you asking because of Angel Eyes?”

“Not sure.”

“Like always.”

It wasn't kind, but wasn't spiteful neither. _But I guess I owe her an answer to that._

“I think I'm asking for me,” Blondie said, relatively certain, “Maybe because I think of both of you as friends. If it's an indiscreet question - -”

“I've been asking you indiscreet questions since you and Angel Eyes rode in here. I'll tell you.”

“Alright.”

“I was a forager, then, and a good one, though I wanted to hunt. My family they were-- well reputed in the tribe. Good hunters. We met Castellan’s master when we stayed in a town for trade for a week and a hunting cycle,” she grimaced, “It was long enough for us both to know we wanted more than that, that we needed each other to see that. ”

“Was he hurting her? Her master, I mean.”

“Mm. I’d say that’s more Castellan’s story to tell than it is mine.”

“Right-- sorry.”

She shook her head, waving off his apology, “You weren’t wrong. They exiled me because of her. Simply a partnership out of the tribe would get me that. Let alone for Castellan to be a woman.”

She paused, looping up a length of spare caribou-hide, “But I could have gone back, if I wanted to. A friend told me that much, that if I'd left her and fallen back into my role obediently, they might have let it go. _Ezhii_ , two women together. Too much so for there to be rules against it. Castellan would have survived, she told me,” she cast her eyes down, shaking her head with a sad smile, “She told me in those words, too. God we were so young then. No idea where to go.”

Blondie just nodded, wondering if he could call the person he was in the desert ‘young’. _Not the same as now. I think._ Blondie wasn't entirely sure why he believed that, but at the very least, pulling on the pack felt different than say, planning another bounty grab or getting in on a robbery. Sue let put a sharp breath and shook her head.

“Hell, maybe I don't know why I left them either. It would have been harder to make that choice, without her. But I still would have wanted to. And after a point, leaving her didn't seem like an option.”

“Yeah,” God, that one hit home in a way Blondie didn't expect. Sue seemed to know, gave him a clap on the shoulder.

“All is well. We found Tweechik, and they couldn’t survive without us either, so we eventually got by,” she shouldered her own pack looking him up and down, “You ready?”

“Yeah,” he was about to turn to go when he saw a familiar dark coat in his peripheral vision. _He came to see us off?_ Blondie didn’t bother to hide his stare at Angel’s approach.

“You check that's everything is loaded?” Angel said by way of greeting, jerking his head at the heavy rifles.

“Always do,” Blondie nodded. Things had been a semblance of normal since Angel lost the top digit of his finger. In any case Angel wasn't letting Blondie treat him any different. On the outset he didn't treat Blondie any different neither. _But he didn't used to check up like this._

“We’re not going far,” Sue said matter-of-factly, though perhaps it was her brand of reassurance, “Just out to the head at the start of the pass. That's where they'll cross.”

“Good.”

“I'm going to go see how Peter and George are faring,” Sue didn’t look back when she left the room. Angel moved a step closer.

“You've got your Navy,” he said in a low voice.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Angel reached into his boot, coming up with a knife that Blondie has seen only a handful of times, “Keep this in your other boot.”

“Why?” he took the hilt, slipped it in his boot, even as he asked. Angel studied the outline of it behind the caribou hide for a moment before answering.

“It’s saved my life more than a few times. And it's an interesting way to take a life,” Angel smirked at him, nothing strange or out of place in that. Blondie fought to keep his face even against a strange tide of hatred, admiration, and something almost implacably fond.

“Right.”

_And Sue wonders why I can never figure out what to say to him._

Something tense hung in the air for a moment, but before Blondie could say a word, the other three hunters crossed into the room. Angel watched George with barely concealed fascination, and George sneered back, his thick black beard twisting against his sallow face. Blondie felt a wave of renewed loathing simmer over him.

“Are we going.” George didn’t phrase it as a question. Blondie nodded slowly, catching Sue’s eye.

“ _Gaolii_ ,” she shrugged, “Let’s go.”

_Something’s gonna break here._

Tracking heavy boot-prints into the thin layer of new snow, Blondie kept his gaze trained at George's back. _Is his pack bigger than usual?_ Blondie got the sense he wouldn't be sleeping much that night, if they made it that far. _There's no way I'm taking the chance that he hurts Sue or anyone else._

Blondie tried to remember if he’d ever hated Angel in quite this way. _It was stronger than this but...less certain. What did I start hating him for?_ The questions whirled around his head as the four of them made camp. Blondie supposed, keeping one eye on George’s back, that he had more reason to hate George, though Angel was undoubtedly more dangerous.

 _Didn’t have anyone worth worrying about him hurting, then._ That thought settled in a both grim and gentle weight in Blondie’s chest. Somehow, despite the thankless winter and the hungry nights, the peculiar townsfolk and the neverending work of hunting, he felt more at home than he’d ever done chasing bounty and skirting the war in the West. _Means I have more to lose, I guess._

In the firelight Blondie watched the way George moved, trying to see a killer in him. _What got Angel so convinced?_ He believed it, for certain, but the man said so little it was hard to know anything about him. Something in the moody way he watched the flames? Maybe it was how little he said.

 _I don't say much either._ Though Blondie and Angel both knew he _was_ a killer. _So maybe that shoulda told me something about him._

The next morning on the trail, listening for the herd, Blondie watched the silent, gathered way George stalked about. The way he held his limbs to communicate a sort of heaviness, the slight hunch to the way he walked. Almost animalistic. _Strange, yeah. But the sort of strange you'd have to look for._

“You two pair off to the East, and we’ll go west. You hear a shot, you’ll know where the herd is. If you don’t hear them first.”

The three of them nodded at Sue, and her eyes lingered on Blondie before they parted in opposite directions.The sun was crisp and bright next to the scraggly pines, which should have been a comfort. Instead it just made him feel more exposed. He kept behind George’s bulky form on the trail.

The forest was thick with another layer of fluffy snow overtop of the crunch of ice beneath. On a longer trip they would have brought snowshoes. _Hopefully we’ll catch enough to keep us from starving. Then Tweechik, Sue, Castellan, Angel. They’ll all be safe._

_Then I’ll be able to kill him._

“Better keep watch for small game,” Blondie murmured, and George just grunted. Now that the two of them were alone, Blondie felt more on edge than ever. He could feel the Navy in one boot, at least, Angel's knife in the other. Even though he’d slept very little the night before, he felt strangely alive, watching the trail ahead and listening to the clatter of the caribou hooves he carried.

 _This is gonna end here._ He isn’t sure what makes him think that. But he is sure.

A single shot in the distance cut through their stalking, followed by the heavy echo of the caribou rifles. _Have Sue and Peter found the herd?_ He started off towards the noise out of instinct, tracking towards the sound. _Sue rarely misses. So they’ve probably got a caribou._ The heaviness in his chest had almost lifted when he suddenly froze, realizing.

There were no footsteps behind him.

 _God above. Where is he?_ Blondie tensed, pulling the heavy rifle off his back. _He was just here-- can’t have been the reason they shot?_ He eyed the sparse trees and crumbled rocks. _He could have slipped into any of these places. God above._ The bright sunlight now picked him out as a target, though he was sure that George was already watching him, can feel it on his back. His fingers tightened on the gun, wishing it was his Navy.

 _Did his victims try to shoot back?_ Carver, at least, would have been as armed as he was. _Not that it saved him_.

Blondie strained his ears, his caribou hooves knocking softly beside him. Nothing except a gust of wind in the pines above him, shaking snow to the ground. _Should I go find Sue? If he’s gone after her and Peter, I have to._

Blondie took a slow step towards the west, them a faster one, quick pace one after the other. _Is that an echo in my steps?_ He stopped short, just a breath before the footsteps became a run behind him.

_Shit._

Then he was hit by a terrifying force, claws locking to the front of him, rifle knocked out of his grasp. Heavy weight at his back threatened to drag him to the ground, but Blondie was more than ready for a fight and dug his heels into the heavy ice, even when the claws tore through his coat. He managed to bend forward, grabbing both weapons in his boots though it cost him a moment of balance. His attacker batted the Navy away before Blondie's glove could get a grip on it, but he still had the knife. He reeled backward to slam the beast into a tree, throwing him off his back.

Blondie got a few steps of lead running, but neither the rifle nor his Navy were anywhere close, buried in the snow. So he turned to face the murderer.  

 _God above._ Not only was his jaw now swollen with a bear’s set of teeth, lips raw against his thick beard, kneeling on the ground with an impressive set of claws latched on to him like blades. The design was capped by a pelt worn from his head down to his back as he hunched, almost crawling on the ground. The effect lay somewhere between inhuman and ridiculous, but it was clear this wasn’t a human desire anymore. _No. He wants to be more than that. Or less._

Blondie breathed in.

_Like killing an animal. Like a mad dog. Nothing to stop me here._

He held the blade steady as he faced down the beast, eyes filled with exactly what it would look like to open up his neck, tear the blade down his ribcage to expose his entrails. _He thinks as an animal he’s gonna die like one._

The only human thing about him was the slight narrowing in his eye, the accusation, right before he began a running leap with a snarl at Blondie. Blondie raised the knife, _hunt or be hunted,_ ready for the blow--

BANG!

A single gunshot tore through the air.

The beast, the hunter and would-be man George fell to the ground with the bullet straight through his head.

Blondie didn't need to turn to know who the shot was from.

Angel stepped out from behind the sparse pine, Remington still in hand. He raised an eyebrow at Blondie. If Angel caught the flash of disappointment the rippled through Blondie, he didn't comment yet.

He stepped towards Blondie slowly, boots crunching in the ice layer. Blondie was reminded of his approach at the graveyard, only this time, neither of them spoke. Just studied the man behind the beast and the dirty snow soaking up the crimson of the wound. Angel reached into an imprint in the snow, pulled out Blondie’s Navy.

“Thanks.”

Angel glanced back at him sidelong when he took the Navy, still holding his Remington. Just as Blondie was still holding the knife. Blondie had a sudden vision of the knife at Angel’s throat, the same nightmarish blur of metal tearing through flesh to paint the snow red. Angel smiled. _Well, shit._

_Guess there are other ways to want to be inhuman._

Blondie was about to say something to him when he heard the fast approach of boots in the deep snow. They both turned to catch Sue moving in the distant trees.

“Over here,” Blondie called. Her hunter’s ears brought her to them immediately.

“I heard gunshots,” Sue glanced down, her face twisting in disgust at the grotesque false bear’s teeth, one of the claw-grips still knotted with torn fabric from Blondie's coat, “Shit. Well. Good. You're both alright?”

“Yeah. Angel shot him down before he did any damage.”

“Mm. You followed us?” Sue gave Angel a look that allowed no quarter. He didn’t flinch.

“I did,” Angel didn’t take his eyes off Blondie when he said it.

“Why?”

Angel said nothing, instead choosing to sheathe his Remington in a particularly ominous manner, “Should we leave the body here?”

“Mm. No. Best that the _shoh_ not take a taste for us, much as it would be a fitting end for him,” Sue glanced over her shoulder, squinting through the pines, “Peter and I have to take in the caribou. Can you two take him back to the house? Try not to be seen. And for god’s sake, get those teeth out of his mouth.”

Angel, unsurprisingly, had no problem sticking one glove in the corpse’s mouth to draw out the bear’s jaw, adapted for a human mouth. The claws too, he took off and offered to Blondie.

“Hell of a thing,” Blondie said, watching Angel turn the sharp incisors of the jaw over in his hand.

“Suppose it was. You going to put that knife down?” Angel smirked at him. _Of course he’d notice._ Blondie hadn’t registered he was still holding it. He shoved it back in his boot before throwing the body over his shoulder.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

It was a shorter trek than Blondie expected to the grim, tiny house on the north side of town. _Must be the adrenaline._ He felt nervy, senses singing against the blood drying on his shoulder. When they arrived at the dark pine-wood door, Angel fished out a skeleton key taken from the dead man’s pocket. _One of the only folks in Tweechik who locks his door._ So another reason why Blondie maybe should have known.

Blondie’s eyes widened when Angel pushed the heavy door open. _God above._ The cabin had a higher roof than any in town, but that wasn't what set Blondie’s blood pounding.

The rafters were hung with a labyrinth of bones, most of them bleached white with age, but many still stained and almost new. It felt like the ghosts of so many dead animals, reaching down to accuse their killers.

“Well. That ain't subtle.”

“No,” Angel had a transfixed smile on his face, looking up at the knotted hangings of ribs and antlers above them, “The bear murders were cheap, but I can understand the appeal of this.”

“Right,” Blondie dropped the body on the floor unceremoniously. Part of him wanted to get out, leave the sorting of the details to Sue and possibly Castellan. But the other part of him was curious, perhaps dangerously so. _God knows Angel is going to want to look around._ Angel had already found the oil lantern and lit it up with a match, the glow casting cavernous shadows along his cheekbones.

“Should I light the fire?” Blondie wasn't sure how long they were going to be there.

“Might as well.”

Luckily the stove was already set for a match. The space had but two rooms, a modest stove in the first with a table littered with meat stains and small shards of bone. The bedroom was similarly sparse, with just as many bones knotting the roof. There was a large, dark bed with a pair of antlers above it, and in the corner, several knives hung along the wall. Angel raised the lantern to examine the blades.

“He lost interest in knives.” Even Blondie could see they were fairly dull.

“Guess so.”

“You've still got mine,” Angel tested the sharpness of the curved hunting knife, “My knife.”

“Yeah,” Blondie slipped a hand down his boot, mouth suddenly dry. He passed the knife to Angel. Angel smiled, turning the blade in the lantern-light and setting the light down by the bedside.

“I saw you, facing him down with this,” Angel smiled that wicked smile, the slow smile that Blondie loved and hated in equal measure, “Have you killed someone with a knife before?”

“No.”

“It’s messy. Especially if it’s quick,” he flipped the knife, catching it between two fingers by the blade, offering the hilt to Blondie, “But it can be very intimate.”

Blondie took the hilt after only a moment’s hesitation. The singing in his blood that had so captivated him facing down the bear killer had returned-- but this time, there was no fear in it. He stepped closer to Angel, crowding him against the wall. Angel smiled with his teeth. This was an old game, and yet. _Feels different._

Blondie brought the blade to his neck, “You’ve cut someone’s throat before.”

“More than once, but not many,” Angel practically leaned forward, his eagerness obvious.

Blondie pressed the blade lightly to the shadowed tendons, the subtle blue just visible in the lantern-light. The first touch left only a thin red line, barely visible. The second, just below it, the blade slipped under flesh, just _barely_ . _Can feel it in the way he breathes._ The knife didn’t draw blood till the third, and even then. Just a subtle drop gathering at the corner his neck is tilted towards.

“It’s because it’s sharp,” Angel breathed into the new wound, “Sharp so you don't feel it till it bleeds.”

Blondie skirted the blade along the lapels of his jacket, considering the way Angel watched him hungrily. He reached down, avoiding the bandages on Angel’s right hand, instead taking his wrist and feeling the confident pulse there. He bent Angel’s hand forward, so that the old scar was visible along with the threaded blue veins. The pulse jumped.

 _So it's a weak spot in more ways than one._ Blondie laid the blade against it consideringly, feeling the thrum of the veins picking up. _It would be easy to cut too deep here._ Blondie could almost feel his own pulse pounding with that thought.

But another, stranger idea took hold of him. Quick as a pistol draw, he pressed the knife to Angel’s neck. He brought the hand to his mouth, dragged his teeth along the rough flesh of the scar, then licked it, as if that would leave it smooth.

It was only when Angel let out a sharp gasp that Blondie realized he had been holding his breath. He half-smirked.

Angel bared his teeth, “I should want to kill you for that.”

“But you don’t want that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“What _do_ you want?” it came out as less blunt, quieter than he wanted it too. Angel looked shocked for a moment, then knocked the knife out of his hand, where it stuck blade-down in the floor. Blondie only had a moment’s warning before Angel jammed a fist in his stomach, and then they were fighting and fucking with fists rather than words.

_Just like we always do when I get the upper hand._

He got his breath back fast, dodging the second punch Angel throws and getting a shot of his own in at the stomach. _And isn’t it just like him to pull something like this._ Not that it didn’t have Blondie hard in his jeans, the pain of Angel’s next blow blossoming against his ribcage. When they got close they took a truce to shed heavy coats, strip with hard nails and almost torn fabric. Though Angel tried to get another punch in, Blondie parried, grabbed his hip and managed to throw him onto the bed.

Thing was, Blondie always won when they fought. And though he could have said Angel let him win, the truth was, in some of those moments, Blondie could feel that he had the advantage. _That I could take his life, if I wanted to._ Now that’s a though he didn’t often let himself have.

Blondie got on top of Angel, pinning him down hard and punching him in the jaw, raising his fist before he could stop himself to hit him again, but he stops short at the flicker in Angel’s glance. Waiting to be sure.

“Again.”

Blondie barely needed the confirmation before delivering another punch, this time to Angel’s ribs. He didn’t trust himself not to stop, but he wasn’t entirely afraid of that, either. _But he’s gotta say it._

“What do you want?”

Angel licked at the corner of his lips with a wince, fixing Blondie with a vivid stare. _Come on._ Blondie waited, though the cold air in the room was raising goosebumps amidst the hot sweat from their fight.

“I took something from you, when I took the shot. You had the knife and you-- you wanted to see what it was like, to kill him, my god,” Angel laughed through his teeth, “You were practically starving for it.”

Blondie felt the truth of that right down to the bones. He nodded slowly. Angel took another breath.

“I want that. Everything of it you can give me.”

Blondie stepped off of Angel, his entire body humming with desire. It should have scared him that there was no hesitation picking up the knife, and yet he’d never been more certain. _God, there isn’t anything he can’t take._ Blondie can see the bruises starting to form, in the places where he’d given blows as good as he’d gotten. Bruises that would fade.

_Not like this._

The blade hesitated along the hair dusting his collarbones, and then Blondie pressed it in. Slow and shallow at first, deepening down the sternum to almost a quarter-inch just before his belly. The blood has no pause, opens up and flows into the knotted hair of his chest. _It’s. It’s beautiful._ Blondie licked his lips, touching the blood just at the edge as he lets the knife caress the curve of Angel’s tricep.

“Did you feel that?”

“I do now,” Angel smiled through gritted teeth like death, and dragged his fingers through the blood beginning to flow into his ribs. When he shifted forward he winced and the tendons of his neck stood out. Blondie put a hand carefully behind his neck, feeling the frantic pulse in his neck. Angel’s hand closed around his cock, painting it with his own blood. Blondie shivered.

“Fuck me,” it was still a demand, if one with a waver in Angel’s voice.

Blondie drove his hand in hard, letting Angel writhe against it, the blood flowing in rivulets down his chest. The war between pain and pleasure was fought in his every breath, and Blondie was witness to it. _No. I'm more than a witness._ The thought thrilled him to the core as he hiked Angel’s legs up, both of them ragged and wrecked. Blondie knew this wasn't gonna last long.

He started the thrusts slow, each of them driving out a gasp from Angel that bordered on a scream. When they started to pick up, it was near-impossible to stop, frenetic as driving in a knife, over and over against the heaving of his chest, the blood shining on it. Every movement felt like freedom, pure power with nothing holding him back for once. _And god, he wants all of it._

Even when he came he didn’t falter for a moment, watching Angel battle against every thrust for release. He slowed slightly, dragging his hand along the wound to gather enough of Angel’s own blood, stroke his cock just gently with it, dragging his thumb along the vein there. _That’s it._ This time, for once, it was Angel completely at Blondie’s mercy.

The intoxication of that realization was brief. Angel choked out something that may have been Blondie’s name, spurting into Blondie’s hand and collapsing onto the bed, spent at last.

Blondie let himself savor the hell-like vision before him with something like reverence, Angel’s entire body a mess of blood and semen and breath. He could see the reflection of the maze of bones in Angel’s black-blown pupils. For a moment he truly did seem-- well, there was no other word for it. Angelic. And then he closed his eyes and smiled the most painful, awful smile Blondie had ever seen.

 _God above._ The haze was starting to fade, replaced by adrenaline. Blondie blinked and moved out from inside Angel, grabbing a blanket from his pack to mop up his chest.

“Need to patch that up,” Blondie stared, almost unwilling to parse what they had just done. _He might need stitches for that. God that’s. A lot of blood._ What about it had seemed so beautiful moments before? Angel shuddered violently, and Blondie put a hand out to steady him.

“Just...cold. Let me grab my clothes, then bind this--”

Angel didn’t accept help, eyes still fevered and shining. _Just like always--_ _but this time. Shit. Looks like he needs it._ The sick, clammy feeling that usually accompanied killing someone was starting to creep up on Blondie. _But never mind, just patch him up. Not like anything can touch him._

Blondie caught sight of the bandage still wrapped around Angel's frostbitten finger and knew how much he was lying to himself. But Angel had gotten his pants on, was trying to use his shirt to deal with the wound somehow.

“Let me --”

“Right. Yeah,” Angel blinked blearily for a moment as Blondie tried to work the shirt into a binding.

"You worry too much," Angel's voice was slurring slightly.  _Shit, that's bad,_ _"Nemo ante mortem beatus._ M'fine."

Blondie felt him breathe against the wound on his chest, once, twice before his entire body slumped forward into Blondie's chest.

_God above._

“Hey. Angel. Angel,” no use. He was completely gone. Blondie checked his pulse, which was still pretty strong and quick, _thank god._

Blondie realized quickly what a small relief that was. He arranged Angel on the bed, by now the heavy furs matted with drying blood. The wound wound need to be bound, and fast. His hands shook. _Shit, get ahold of yourself._

He heard the heavy door of the house rattle and his breath nearly stopped. He tucked Angel’s head up, crossing to the main room, no longer caring what this looked like. _Just need to get help_ . _God I hope that's - -_

“Sue,” he said half desperately when he opened the door for her, then realized at once his hands were covered in blood. Her face twisted in horror for a moment, then rearranged itself into the level-headed hunt leader he knew.

“I’ll get Castellan.”

She left without a word. Every second in the waiting felt like agony. Blondie tied strips of cloth tight across the still flowing wound on Angel’s chest, now sickened by the paleness of his face.

 _Even him. I give in and there’s no one I couldn’t kill. Oh god. God above._ Blondie staggered to a seat on the bed, putting one hand on Angel’s neck. The pulse there felt like the only thing keeping him inside his skin.

They were back in good time, Castellan carrying the heavy leather bag of medical supplies. Blondie couldn't think of what to say. Even Castellan drew a sharp breath when she saw the bloody mess of the sheets,“My god. What the hell did George do to him-- I thought you said--”

“No,” Blondie’s voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

“I did that to him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Facilis descendus averno_ \- the descent to hell is easy. 
> 
> _Ezhii_ \- Different, strangely so.
> 
>  _Gaolii_ \- I expect so. 
> 
> _shoh_ \- Bear
> 
>  _Nemo ante mortem beatus_ \- Nobody is blessed before his death. (Lol @ Angel). 
> 
> George's design is based on Randall Tier from Hannibal and his cabin vaguely off Garrett Jacob Hobbs in Hannibal. You should watch that show if you liked this chapter especially :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, let me know how you felt about it in the comments!! <3


	5. And the pine needles shiver in the storm's wake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cripes, sorry this chapter took so long. School is a thing. And this chapter is....how to describe it? Messy. Emotionally messy. 
> 
> Chapter warnings: blood transfusion, knife-related flashbacks, discussion of trauma situations, stockholm syndrome, past rape mention in passing, past murder mention. Mostly just a lot of emotional conversations or lack thereof.

The frost patterns on the small window catch the glimmer of the ever-present aurora, clearing from the storm. The weight of the past feels as suffocating as the snow in silent waiting outside. Blondie drops his hand to Angel’s lap, letting it rest there a moment. Part of him wishes that the scar would fade at his touch, all of it leaving them to just _be_ as they once were.

The other part sees it as, perhaps, in Angel’s words, _transcendent._

“Do you remember it?”

Blondie surprises himself with that question, and from the vice grip of Angel’s hand on his wrist, he’s just as surprised. _It’s an obvious question  and yet-- not obvious for me to say it._ Angel’s other hand curls into a fist on his lap and Blondie tenses, anticipating a blow. It doesn’t come. The floor creaks as he shifts just slightly towards Blondie on the bed.

 _For God's sake Angel. You got something to say or what?_ Blondie waits for him to speak, giving him the full measure and memory in his gaze.

Angel uncurls his fingers, “I do. I think about it. More than I thought I would.”

Blondie can’t stop the sharp exhale from coming out with the wave of guilt. Angel’s grip tightens to something painful.

“Hell, you’re impossible. I wanted to think about it, you understand?” he closes his eyes, “I thought-- god.”

He drops Blondie’s wrist, chewing on his bloodied lip hard. _God above._ Blondie gets up, lights the stove for something to do. In the small window he can just make out the soft descent of the last few flakes of the storm. They glitter in the starlight. _Doesn’t feel like the storm has gone anywhere._

He leans against the wall, not trusting himself close to Angel right now. _Scary how much I missed him._ The room starts to warm, but Angel still hasn’t moved from where he is on the bed. Blondie chances a look in his direction.

“Thought what?”

Angel stands up, walks slowly towards him, crowding him against the cold, barren wood of the wall, heat radiating from the iron on his other side. _Here it comes._ Blondie doesn’t quite lean forward to Angel’s lips like he wants to, just rests his head on the bones of Angel’s shoulder as soon as he gets close enough. He can feel Angel clench his fist again.

“You’re not making this any easier.”

“Just say it.”

“What do you think I’m going to say.”

“You’re going.”

Angel pulls back, folding his fingers along the side of Blondie’s face and slapping him lightly.  Leaving his hand to rest there, “Nothing like that. Wish it were that easy. Tried that before.”

He pauses, settling his fingers along the edge of Blondie’s jaw, “It be easier if I left?”

Blondie shakes his head, sure of that now. _God above, I’m in hell._ He can’t help but feel like Angel is thinking the same thing. Angel keeps his eyes downcast for a moment, then they shock open, still vivid as desert dust. He drops his hand, holding Blondie's gaze.

“Listen. I'm a murderer and a bastard and I get a lot of satisfaction being damn good at it. You know what I am. From the first time I fucked you, I told you you could be more than what you are.”

“I don't want to be like you - -” the protest sounds old and weak on Blondie's lips, but Angel shakes his head.

“I know that. Though I can see why you thought that, believed I wanted to make you in my image,” he pauses, the glow of the oil lamp reflecting in his pupils, “I thought that was what I was trying to do, with all of this. Easier to call it that.”

“So what's your point?”

“My point, Blondie, is that I can accept wanting to hurt you. That’s what I do, and it doesn't make you exceptional,” he spits the last word out like it's something dirty, but doesn't look away.

“But look, if I didn't want to see you in pain then why the hell did I _keep_ wanting to hurt you?”

Blondie chews on his tongue for a moment, wishing for a quirley. Angel asking questions was an old game, but Blondie had always felt he knew the answers to the questions he asked. _Not this time._ Blondie’s gut clenches. _What is this, some kinda apology? That's the last thing I deserve._

Blondie tilts his head, trying to keep his voice even, “I want to hurt you. But isn't it like you said? It's different when you want it for the pleasure of it?”

“But did you want that?”

“You did.”

“I know, you idiot. I was asking about you.”

Blondie frowns, fighting confusion. Angel didn't generally ask. He just knew. _And it's me dealing the blows most nights._ “You never hurt me, not really. Bruises don’t count.”

“Don't be stupid. You let me cut open your mind just as soon as I let you take a knife to my chest,” he does tear his eyes to the ground then, pacing away from Blondie to lie down on the bed, head resting on the wooden frame.

“I don't think you knew if you wanted it. Or if you did...not for any good reasons.”

Blondie weighs what he said carefully, crossing to the other side of the bed, lying down next to him. _I’ll take a truce. Try to understand._

“Part of me wanted to. More than anything.”

Angel rolled his head to look at Blondie, mouth drawn in a hard line, “You're still destroying yourself over that. For giving in to that. You know what I came here to say? What I realized that's the goddamn reason I torture you with wanting it so much is I want you to stop torturing yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Blondie’s voice sounds tired even to him, but Angel is already sitting up, gesturing with his hands as he so often does when he speaks of gods and monsters. _His hands don’t usually shake like that, do they?_

“It’s been that way since the West. Since god knows how long before I met you and you were running with that stupid sonofabitch Tuco. Playing with lives and resigned to it, but not willing to go far enough that it would do shit for you. You're so obsessed with your own capacity for destruction. Your desire for it. I thought if you gave in, for once, you'd stop holding yourself back. Hating yourself for things you haven't even done,” he drops his hand when he notices the tremble in it, turning his face away.

“God, you're so afraid of yourself, Blondie and you don't have to be.”

It's Blondie who has to turn away then, staring at his hands on his knees.There’s so much damn truth, so much conviction in the way Angel exposes him. Blondie feels like his heart has been carved out and left raw and bloody in Angel's hand, still beating. _So maybe Angel did know how to get to me in the head._

_But it's all true, isn't it?_

“Okay.”

“You still don't believe me.”

“I mean. You ain't wrong,” Blondie can admit to the fear easily. _But that ain’t shit._ “Just. How can you say that when I nearly killed you? I know you ain't scared of anything, but hell.”

“I wanted you to stop being afraid, not to give you a reason I should be afraid,” there’s a hollowness in Angel’s voice that echoes in the pit of Blondie’s stomach. _Living without fear...has that ever been an option?_ At some point Blondie can’t remember, he stopped being afraid of how anyone might hurt him. _Started being afraid of what I might do to hurt them._

He turns over to study the flinty certainty, still tucked somewhere in Angel’s face. Part of it is reassuring. The other only serves to remind him how corpselike Angel looked with blood running down his ribcage and a knife at his throat.

_Can I stop being afraid that will happen again?_

The scene was nightmarish, the dark sheets of the bed stained black and blood matting on the furs piled there. Castellan went to work immediately, checking for the pulse and heartbeat, unpacking knives that made Blondie twitch just looking at them. Time seemed heavy and slow. _It’s alright. He ain’t going to die._

_He can’t do that. He can't._

“Blondie. What the hell. What the _hell_ happened here?” Sue demanded, shattering the unreality with a fresh wave of guilt.

“I told you,” Blondie was raising his voice now, panic starting to fray his nerves.

“That doesn’t explain shit-- what on earth drove you to….this? What the hell did he do? What did you do?” Sue’s eyes twitched back and forth from Angel’s shallow breathing to stare at Blondie, at the drying blood on his hands and clothes.

 _What the hell can I say?_ The blood on his hands felt so _damn_ inevitable, all of it. Like it had been nothing but borrowed time since the graveyard. _I was always waiting to take what I really wanted from him, and now, I’ve done it._

“Blondie,” Sue repeated, but it was Castellan who saved Blondie from answering.

“Did he ask you for this?” she didn’t look up from her work, running a finger along the wound. Watching it sent an involuntary shock of possessiveness to Blondie’s toes. _I did this, I created this, I marked him. Maybe for death. Maybe I knew that._

“He did.”  

Sue looked incredulous for a moment at that, but pursed her lips white and went silent.

“Stitches,” Castellan checked his pulse, “Damn him to hell. Sue?”

“Yeah?”

“I believe we’ll need to try a transfusion.”

Sue gave Blondie a withering look, but shrugged off her coat without comment. Castellan extracted what looked like a wineskin from her bag, but attached on either end with a sharp metal tip, somewhere between a needle and a knife. Sue rolled up her sleeve while Castellan prepared a wrap and the needle.   _She’s gonna take Sue’s blood?_

“You can take mine,” he mumbled, offering up his arm.

“He matches only with Sue. That would surely kill him,” she seemed impatient, but not angry. She jerked her head at Blondie, “Get a chair.”

He didn’t waste time grabbing the stool in the other room, placing it next to Castellan while Sue cleaned her arm using water from a canteen. Castellan looked up from her preparations.

“Put on a pot of water.”

The familiar, mechanical motion of throwing another log on the fire, finding out a beaten iron pot almost distracted Blondie. It wasn't till he reached to pull on his thick gloves that he remembered the blood, flaking and staining his palm.

Against whatever remained of his better judgment, he scrubbed his hands clean with the new snowfall before pulling on his gloves and filling the pot.

When Blondie returned the needle was in Sue's arm, and she was breathing deep, slow breaths. _Glad I can't see the blood coming out._ Though he could tell from the small bead along her arm-- _Castellan knows what she's doing._ It didn’t seem like the first time Sue had done this, either, though Castellan kept a close eye on her. Blondie kept stealing glances back to Angel's body, check if he was still breathing. Castellan seemed unconcerned.

When she took out the needle, Sue shuddered, and Castellan placed a hand on her shoulder to steady her. She tied a quick knot in linen to stem the bleeding from her arm, and kissed her gently on the cheek before going to work.

“You’re too good, Cas,” she murmured, and Blondie felt like he should step away, but couldn’t bring himself to stop watching Angel’s chest rise and fall.

“I want to see if I can.”

“You can,” Sue had such a bitter confidence, Blondie almost took heart in it.

“It’s an imperfect science,” she drove the other needle into Angel’s arm, squeezing an almost bellows-like mechanism which fed Sue’s blood into his veins.

“It is,” Sue’s glance lingered on Blondie for a moment, but Blondie couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.

“I'm going to go deal with George’s body,” Sue didn't look back when she took her leave. Castellan only nodded, prising out the needle and wrapping his arm briefly. Then from her bag she removed a length of gut-wire, along with the leather case containing a smaller set of needles for threading flesh.

“This might not be enough,” she stated, never one to take a delicate bedside manner, “The shock may yet kill him. Or stop him waking up.”

“Mm.” Blondie dragged over Sue’s chair, sitting on Angel’s right side. He watched her needle run through the pale violet edges of the torn skin. Seeing the way the skin knitted back together. _That ain't something that can be undone._ He watched her stitch for several minutes before having to ask.

“How did you know he’d--” Blondie broke off, not finding the words to describe what Angel had done. _What I did._

“I know him. More so, I know his kind,” she tightened a knot, threading a new segment of the animal gut wire. Blondie had to swallow a moment before realizing what she meant.

“Your master?”

“Yes. Interestingly, if not for his kind Angel Eyes would very likely be dead by now. Fitting, isn’t it?”

Blondie remembered what Angel had quipped about crows the other day. _Blinded crows. God. Feels like we’re already there._ He swallowed an unexpected ball of emotion in his throat.

“He ever do that to you?”

“No,no. I was too useful to him. He frequently used the knife on girls he found, though. He's not quite like Angel Eyes. Always wanted to be the one holding the knife. He'd bleed them for the purpose of medicine, of course, but occasionally. For interest,” she begins threading the next segment if the wound, barely a change on her pale face, “I would say he was fascinated by death.”

Blondie grimaced, unable to stop the gut instinct from coming up to his face. _To do that to a girl, a child. God above._ His stomach turned at the thought of it. When he looked up, Castellan was staring at him curiously.

“You experience revulsion. That’s natural. I suspect I did at one time as well.”

She had something almost sympathetic in her glance. Blondie’s sick worry refocused as he turned back to Angel's body, “I’m not so different from him.”

“Angel Eyes isn't. But you're not like him. Nor like my master.”

Blondie didn't say anything to that. Castellan finished the last stitch on Angel’s chest, still as cool as ever. _Wonder how she does it._ Blondie always found himself a bit unsettled by Castellan. _But she's not disgusted by him, nor Angel, nor me. She can't be._

“You think he's still...doing that?”

She hesitated, something almost like fear flickering over her features. It was gone almost as soon as it came, “He's long dead. Sue killed him.”

“Oh.”

“You're far more like her. It's why she likes you,” she stated with almost a fondness in her face.

“Mm,” Blondie felt like he didn't deserve that kindness, but Castellan treated it as a matter of fact.

“Help me wrap this,” she had Blondie fold Angel upright, hold him in place while she looped a length of linen strips around his bound chest, “I want to avoid moving him until the bleeding slows. But when it does, change the blankets to avoid infection. You're lucky. The cold at least makes that difficult, as long as that itself doesn't kill you.”

He nodded, not managing to speak. Angel’s skin, at least, was warm and pliant. Fear made his hands gentle, cradling the back of Angel's head and laying him down slowly once the wound was covered.

“Make sure he drinks water if he wakes,” Castellan didn’t give him any illusions with that ‘if'.

With that, she left Blondie to his vigil. Night had fallen outside, and he found himself shivering despite the fact that the fire was warming the room.

 _This is what I deserve, ain't it?_ Maybe what Angel deserved too. Blondie didn’t know, didn’t want to know, wanted to know _so desperately_ it felt like he might be bleeding out too.

He would have stayed stock still until the room was frozen over, but that would certainly have killed the both of them. Instead, he kept a regular rhythm of watching the breaths, counting, a new log every thousand counts or so. Normally at this point some kind of numbness settled into his chest, something to take the edge off of the violence, desire, and guilt. It only became sharper.

Was this penance? _Sure as hell feels like it._ The irony of being unable to numb the waves of guilt for someone like Angel Eyes wasn't lost on Blondie. _If he were awake he'd probably give me some of that Latin shit._

Blondie would have given anything to hear that from him now.

The day turned late. Blondie wondered if Castellan would come back to check in, but it seemed she had other things on her hands. He found some wrapped pemmican in a cupboard and forced it down his throat.

Angel slept. _If you could call that sleep._ Blondie drew his coat closer to his neck. When he could barely hold his body up from exhaustion, he rested his head on the edge of the bed. Watched Angel’s chest rise and fall.

When Blondie woke, there was a hand in his hair. It was moving. _God above. Is he up?_ The relief flooded Blondie like ice water. He sat up too quickly, earning a wince, but nothing more from the man lying on the bed.

“About time.”

Blondie blinked in disbelief, taking in the half-smirk on Angel's face, casual as the devil himself.

“God above,” he gripped Angel's wrist too hard, which earned him a wince. Blondie loosened his hand.

“Not this time.”

 _This time?_ Blondie felt suddenly slightly nauseated, turning away from Angel. “Thank God.”

The cup of water by the bedside was empty at least, and the room wasn’t chilled just yet. Blondie got up in a slight daze, threw another log on the fire for something to do that felt normal. _Angel sure as hell seems to want them to be that way._ He sat back down, staring at the dark crimson stain across the linen on his chest. Angel let him for a moment, then glared and pulled the blankets overtop of himself.

“You look sick,” Angel kept up his wary stare as Blondie took his seat next to the bed again .

“You look worse.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Well seeing as there ain't a mirror in this room you might have to take my word for it.”

Angel smiled at that, smiled like murder and nothing out of the ordinary, as if he wasn’t still lying in a bed stained with his own blood. _God above._ It hit Blondie again, and against his better judgment his hand clapped against Angel’s wrist. Feeling the pulse there. Angel stared at him, his arm tense like he wanted to pull away. But he didn’t move.  

“You gonna give me hell?”

“For what?”

“You almost ended up dead cause of me,” Blondie mumbled. Angel snorted, which normally would have forced the anger into Blondie’s throat. But there was nothing of that left in him. Blondie tapped at the bandages on Angel’s middle finger. _That still ain’t healed too._ The fight went out of Angel then, and he tipped his head back to stare at the bones above them, still reaching down like God’s own hand.

“You wouldn't have done it if I hadn't pushed you to,” Angel murmured, “And you couldn't have done shit if I didn't want it.”

“You think that?”

“I know it.”

Blondie’s hand settled against the scar on Angel's wrist without intending to. Angel tensed up like something hunted, glaring at Blondie. But he still didn’t move. _God above._

“M’sorry,” he watched Angel’s face transform from contemplative to angry.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re apologizing for?”

“I dunno, hurting you like that?” that was the wrong thing to say, because Angel tore his arm away, drawing back and then wincing hard.

“Hey, hey, take it easy.”

“Don't play it like I was some kind of victim, Blondie. Damn you,” Angel grimaced against a hard breath, “You want to know what would have happened to you if I hadn't wanted it? Because the sons of bitches that gave me this scar knew. They knew every minute when they were fucking me and they sure as hell knew it when I came to kill them after. I let them feel every moment of what they'd done, took my time with the pain. And I'm far better now than I was then. I wouldn't wait. I wouldn't hesitate. If you'd gone out of line I'd kill you.”

His voice fell away when he spat out those last words, breaking Blondie's gaze. Blondie believed him, and yet didn't. _Is there even a line he wouldn't let me cross, now?_ And that's sure as hell couldn't be a good thing. Angel shoved his arm weakly, the tiredness finally settling on his face.

“Don't fool yourself Blondie. Don't you ever think you've got that kind of power over me.”

“Don't I?”

Blondie wasn't sure what made him push it, but it shut Angel up at least.

“Get me some water.”

They didn't speak much after that, but Blondie got him the water. And some books he asked for, too, some of Castellan’s that Blondie had seen him reading. Blondie didn't go far, just watched Angel. _Have to be sure he doesn't pass out again._ Blondie could tell from the slight twitch when he breathed in that it hurt to do so.

“You. Want to read something?” Angel mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.

“M’not great at it.”

“Could start now,” Angel turned the page without looking up.

“Mm.”

“You _ever_ had any hobbies, Blondie?”

Blondie half-laughed, half-shuddered. _God, the hell is he making small talk for? He's never bothered with that shit before._ But then again, Blondie can't remember if he’d ever seen Angel hurt like this.

“You want me to go?”

“No.”

He meant it, at least. Blondie caught him staring every so often when he thought Blondie was half asleep. A few hours later Castellan came by with some of Sue's catch, and to check in. She didn't seem surprised nor unsurprised when she saw him up. Perhaps a little relieved. She took out a roll of linen.

“That was incredibly stupid, Angel Eyes.”

Angel didn't say anything to that, but did tilt his head in partial agreement.

“Neat work on the stitches.”

“Did Blondie tell you we did a transfusion?”

“No. It worked, evidently. Congratulations.”

Castellan made a face between a glare and a half smile and unpinned the stained bandages, “Thank you.”

The wound was mostly dried over with crumbling black, the stitches more bloodied than Blondie remembered. It wasn’t bleeding, but still looked raw and angry. Castellan frowned before beginning to clean the edges of it, paying no attention to when Angel winced slightly.

“No infection so far. That's likely to help. And the cut was clean.”

“I keep my knives sharp.”

Castellan ignored that comment, gesturing at wrapped meat on the counter, “Make sure you eat something.”

He paused a moment, “Thank you.”

Blondie took the meat in hand and left them to the kitchen, finding Castellan’s curious glances a bit hard to take. He unwrapped the meat, Sue's caribou from the day before. _Or maybe George's from last week._ He grimaced and searched the kitchen for a pot, his blood turning cold when he opened a drawer full of knives.

 _Just cut up the meat. Keep it together._ Blondie dug his nails into his palm before picking up a butcher’s knife. The meat was partially frozen, thankfully, and nothing like the strange draw through warm flesh. It didn't stop him from flinching slightly when Castellan crossed over into the room. She didn't comment.

“They’re going to burn the body tomorrow. You should go,” she tilted her head at Blondie, “I believe Sue wants to see you there.”

Blondie nodded, checking again that he hadn't cut his thumb. He glanced over towards the end of the hall.

“I’ll stay with him.”

“Alright.”

It turned out to be a relief. The tense silence stretched between them for most of the time they spent awake. Blondie caught Angel studying his blood on the knife edge, still carelessly left on the counter top.

Blondie shoved it in a drawer just before night fell. Angel didn't comment, but reached for him in the night as soon as the room went dark. Just one hand on his hip. _Presence._ Blondie didn't know if it was for him or for Angel but at the very least, sleep went better than anything else had between them.

The next morning Blondie only had to follow the uncharacteristic chatter of voices, muffled against the layers of snow. At the crossroads in the center of Tweechik the entire town was gathered, a scant crowd in thick coats and hides, shifting back and forth with discomfort both physical and emotional. _They can all tell there's been another body._

 _But this one is different._ Peter knocked him on the shoulder, jarring Blondie out of his thoughts.

“Hey! Where's Angel Eyes?” he paused at the stricken expression on Blondie's face, “He’s not-- Sue said it was--”

“No he's. He's hurt,” Blondie swallowed, _god, what the hell can I say to him._ Peter stared a moment, but then a call cut through the murmurs.

“Tweechik!” Sue called again, “I have news both grim and glad.”

Whispers sounded through the crown, rapid as wind. The word _murder_ hit Blondie’s ears more than once, along with _animal._ It bounced around his consciousness. _I have that instinct. More than I want to._ Blondie has always suspected, but now he _knows_.

“One more among us was lost. And I can tell you all. This was not an honorable death. We have suffered many losses, but this, third body is the last,” she paused, as glances turned round in circles, panic starting to swell amid a mob of so few. _But she’s got them. They trust her. And she still trusts them._ Sue caught his eye with a flinty stare before continuing.

“We believed it was an animal slaughtering our best. But sometimes the beast walks among us," she glanced down soberly to the body that lay covered, before uncovering it to reveal what Blondie can only assume was George's corpse. A cry of shock rose up from at least one, but most of the crowd looked to Sue, their faces painted with horror, "George, our own hunt leader, was seized by an animal madness. It was not a bear who killed Carver, nor Jim. It was this madness, which almost led him to saboutage our hunt. To threaten all of us."

She took a long breath, fear hanging over the room, but no panic rising up yet. 

“Angel Eyes, who followed the hunt when he recognized what George had done, shot him to protect Tweechik. He was gutted, but recovers from his injuries,” a hush fell out over the crowd. Blondie’s gut clenched. _Of all of the lies….but what the hell is she going to tell them?_ Blondie should feel lucky, but it just makes the sick worry in his stomach sharpen. _How the hell are things ever going to be normal?_

Sue’s voice resonated, sharp and clear, “We remain lucky. A caribou has been caught. We will not starve. And we are still as strong as we are together. Tonight we burn this body, not with ceremony, but to purge Tweechik of this madness. Do you stand with me, _Naa'in_?”

A breath of silence. And then, voices, declaring ‘aye’, some murmuring words in Sue's tongue that Blondie had heard before. 

“Good. Joshua, Wen. Prepare the pyre. For now.  _ehllda'aa_ , there is caribou. There is much to celebrate, as well as to mourn. Thank you, all,” Sue stepped down, and Blondie felt a pang of humility hit him in the gut. _How she learned to command a city like that--_ Blondie had never respected soldiers, mayors, sherrif’s, but he could damn well see why the whole town trusted her. _So why the hell does she trust me?_

 _Or if she still does._ He followed her to the wood pile, glancing over at the body, still wearing the grotesque jaws and with the bullet wound matted in his dark hair. Blondie shuddered, the residual hatred still enough to scare him. He stared at Sue. When she neither spoke, nor acknowledged him, he cleared his throat.  

“You wanted to see me?”

“No. I wanted you to see that.”

“Mm,” Blondie shifted to go, but couldn’t leave without saying _something._ “You didn't have to lie. About what I did.”

After all, there were more than a few half-truths in the speech she’d made. She stiffened, then gave him the full measure of her gaze.

“I told a story about the truth. If it felt like a lie, you should think about why that is.”

He pursed his lips and nodded, guilt caught in his throat. But she didn’t let up, just left him to sit with it with a parting glance, “I’ll see you at the hunt tomorrow.”

_And what can I say to that?_

Blondie did think about it, for a week of doing shit all, watching Angel gain strength and occasionally getting out to catch small game. It was strange. Peter seemed eager for details regarding Angel, but Sue cut him off curtly. Surprisingly, the hunt went better without George, seven snow hare, a few porcupine. _At least I don't have to keep looking over my shoulder._

Things stayed quiet between him and Angel, though they mellowed slightly, the questions simmering below the surface. Angel read to him passages from the books until he relented and picked them up himself. Angel told him the text was better in Latin. He began to wonder if learning Latin would be easier than trying to read between the lines of Angel's barbed looks and drawling calm.

Then, on a clear afternoon when the endless cold sun was blinding on the snowy desert, Castellan sent him to see Sue. Blondie swallowed what little pride he had left and shrugged on his coat under Castellan’s sharp gaze. _Guess I've got nothing else to lose from Sue._ They hadn't spoken beyond practicalities since the body burned.

In her slightly cool cabin she put on a pot of snow to boil, keeping her back to Blondie for the moment. _She gonna give me hell?_ In some sense, it felt like she already had. He sat down at the table, drumming his fingers slightly. She smirked, the first familiar expression she'd made, and slid something across the table. _A pack of quirleys-- how?_

“Got a shipment into the store before the last storm. Use them slowly. Next one might not be for another few months. Though you look like you could use one about now.”

“Thanks,” it seemed like too little to say, “You don't owe me this.”

“You're right. I don't.”

He grimaced, staring down at the table. _I definitely deserve that._ There's a brief silence in which Sue set down the mugs and fixed him with a hard stare before relenting on him.

“Look, Blondie, I still trust you. What you did to Angel Eyes was incredibly stupid, and yes, twisted. But I don't think it makes you dangerous.”

“I dunno that you're right about that.”

“What I'm saying is you've still got a place in Tweechik, you know that now,” Sue continued, “but you have to start making peace, Blondie. With him, and with yourself.”

“I know,” Blondie said it quietly.

“I know it's not as easy as I'm making it sound either,” she relented on him, nodding insistently at the steaming cup. He took a sip, then reached for the box of matches, lighting up a smoke. _Need that for this conversation._ Still, there was a loosening in his chest he didn’t expect. A dull ache he’d gotten used to feeling uncurling, just slightly.

“Yeah. When it comes to Angel I just. I don’t know. Never have.”

“Is he doing any better? Castellan said the wound was doing well.”

“God above, that's the worst of it. He acts like it was nothing. Like anything else. Or that I should have expected it,” he sucked down on the smoke, “I don't know how to take that.”

Sue took out a quirley of her own and lit it. Blondie didn't know she smoked. She paused, exhaling the first gust, “I don't know what happened between you, and I don't think I want to. But the thing now is what are you going to do about it?”

“Hell, I've got to try something.”

“Do you know why he --”

“No-- god,” it seemed dangerously close to the question of why Blondie had taken up the knife. _What the hell was so beautiful about it?_ Even that thought had him avoiding Sue’s gaze, and she didn’t push the matter. Just stared out the window at the dimmed sunlight.

“Well, there's only one way to find that out.”

“How's that?”

“Ask him, you idiot. God, it's a wonder you two haven't already killed each other,” her voice was careless, but it cut Blondie deeper than he expected, coughing hard on the fragrant smoke. _It's true though, you've thought it yourself. Often._

“Sorry, that was tactless. You alright?”

“No, you're. You're right is the thing. I don't know why I haven't. Killed him. I wanted to and he knew it. I couldn’t, and I knew that then and now. And I don’t know why”

“Come on, Blondie. You followed him all the way up here. That's a kind of madness you gotta know the name for by now.”

“Guess I'm damned then,” breathing in the quirley was searing, a familiar, gentle pain.

“Oh you’ve been damned since you turned up in Tweechik,” she shook her head and took another drag of hers, “But I'm still glad you're here. As much as you both are almost more trouble than you're worth.”

“Right,” Blondie finished his quirley, feeling at once heavier and lighter than before, “Stop making trouble then.”

“Yeah. Do that,” she took the cup from him when he passed it back to her, “Come back. Come back often. Talk with someone else if it helps you.”

He managed a half smile, “Yeah.”

“One other thing,” she fixed him with those piercing eyes of hers, straight shooting and hard as granite, “Don't take nothing for an answer. From yourself, too.”

“Right,” he licked his lips, then remembered himself, “Thank you.”

She waved him off, turning back to stewing the lichen as he tugged his gloves and scarf back on. Returning to the -- to George's -- had become almost familiar. _Or at least I haven't felt this scared for a few days._ He made no greeting when he walked in, simply breathed in and stared at the bones on the ceiling.

“Blondie?” Angel called from the other room.

“Just gonna put on some water,” Blondie reached for the pot for something to do, heading outside to fill it with a fresh layer of snow. Before going inside, Blondie lit up a quirley, thinking hard. _She's damn right. But hell. How do I even start?_

When he returned, Angel was leaning on a wall in the kitchen. He made it look casual, but Blondie suspected it would be painful for him to stand without it. _Well. That's already a shit start._ Against his better judgment, he lights another quirley. _I can save them when we've got this shit sorted out._

“Sue find you those?”

Blondie nodded slowly, eyeing the bandages on Angel's chest underneath his heavy coat.

“You shouldn't be up if you don't have to be,”

He half-shrugged, giving Blondie a condescending look even while supported by the wall. _I'm so damn tired of that._ He took a step towards Angel, then another, until he's crowded him against the cold wood. _Because the truth is, I could hurt you before and I can hurt you now, and I don’t know why that’s what you still want._ Angel glared at him, somewhere between defiant and tempting.

“Listen. I know I acted like there was nothing I could do that could hurt you, and I was so damn wrong about that,”  Blondie could see now, though Angel was stronger, that stepping away from the wall would be painful, “But damnit Angel, you were hurt _bad_ and still are.”

He pursed his lips, trying to find an opening in Blondie's stance, to walk away, “I don't mind that it hurts. Makes it interesting. “

“I do mind. Hell, Angel, do you know what it was like waiting to see if you'd wake up? What the hell would I have done if you hadn't?”

His smirk did twitch a bit then.

“Moved forward. You're capable of that.”

“Did you think I was _capable_ of this?”

“Yes,” he pushed Blondie's arm away, finally crossing into the other room to lie back down on the bed. Blondie followed him. _No. I'm not done saying what I should have._

“And what, you just assumed you'd survive it?”

“Mm. Always have in the past.”

“God above.”

Blondie sat down hard across from Angel, clenching and unclenching his fists. There was a tight ball of emotions frozen in his throat. Then Angel raised his head, spoke very quietly.

“Look. if you’re worried, I'm not going to make you do that again-- probably would kill me that time.”

“You didn't make me do it--”

“Didn't _I?_ ”

“Goddamn it,” Blondie climbed on to the bed, to glare eye to eye with Angel’s beautiful, infuriating smirk. His hand brushed against the linen bandages. A sudden vision of the knife, dipping in deeper to his flesh, blurred Blondie's vision for a moment. Beautiful. Terrible. _Certainly something he'd have some damn Latin shit to say about._

Blondie could only think of one thing he had to say.

“Goddamn how much I couldn't stand it if you had died.”

“Couldn't stand yourself?” Angel avoided his gaze, and _damnit,_ Blondie gave in to instincts then, kissed him. Insistent, but far too carefully, lips sliding across a shadow of a few days, tasting his sharp teeth. Neither of them bit back this time. Blondie could feel in his breath every hitch of where it still hurt. He pulled away, not certain if that had said a damn thing. So instead, he spoke.

“I meant what I said the first time.”

Blondie wanted to look away, because that sudden flicker of raw emotion in Angel’s gaze was far too much. But it felt like it could be peace. _The kind that starts with war._ Angel swallowed hard, staring at Blondie's hands laying on his lap.

“How the hell did this happen, Angel.”

“I just. Wanted you to have this.”

“I don't know what the hell that means.”

“I don't. I don't know either.”

 _Well, that's it, isn't it?_ If Angel didn't know, admitted to not knowing-- _I've got no idea in hell._ He settled away from him slightly, staring at the wound a moment. Oddly wanting to run his fingers along the bandages. It felt as sharp as the desire to carve through the flesh in the first place, and yet, stranger. Softer, perhaps. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“So what now?”

“Eat. Sleep,” Angel tried to say it carelessly, but Blondie could tell by the nervous energy in his finger tips that something had stuck. _Can’t pretend things ain’t different anymore._

“I’ll think about it,” Angel met his eyes when he said it.

It was almost a relief. Almost.

Blondie wasn't sure if he dreamed the hand at his neck and lips softly biting at his at some ungodly hour of the morning. In any case, when he flickered his eyes open, Angel was already sitting upright in the bed, carving a block of wood with a small knife. Blondie sat up, pulled on his coat, and went to throw another log on the fire. He came back with cups of water for them both, but didn’t sit back down on the bed. _Doesn’t seem right to._

“Thought about what you said,” Angel takes off a strip of the wood without looking at him.

“Mm?”

“I can’t...think straight when you're around. It’s all a goddamn mess, Blondie. I thought I-- but never mind.”

“Yeah.” Blondie took a sip of the water, heart heavy.

“But I have to know,” he studied the smaller knife, next to the wood shavings and shook them off, “It’s never been. I’ve never not known before, with wanting. So I'm not gonna see you.”

“Yeah. Alright.”

“You can do that. Castellan will come by. I’ll be alright. I am doing better than I look. You trust that?”

It really was a question. Blondie swallowed, nodded. _Hell that he’s asking._ Blondie wasn’t sure how to take this. _But I meant what I said to Sue and if I don’t see him. I can’t hurt him._

“You’ll be alright?”

It took Blondie a moment to realize Angel had meant that question honestly as well. _God above. Not sure if 'alright’ is something I ever was._ Something Sue said flitted back into his mind. _Seems fitting as hell._

_Seems like the only thing I can say._

“I’ll survive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose this is what happens when you put two characters who were never meant to love together. :) Anyways, thoughts and comments always appreciated. I promise you an end to this next chapter. It should feel like the end is coming, hmm? 
> 
> Gwitchin: _ehllda'aa_ We will eat.
> 
> Oh, and I hope it's obvious how the chronology has hashed out till now. I guess that'll come out in the last chapter, but yes, the flashbacks end here. All caught up.


	6. Lay down roots, strangle the permafrost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we finally come to the close. Chapter warnings are modest: explicit sex, mild violent flashbacks, hunting/dead animal.
> 
> Latin and Gwitchin translations to follow.

 

The month between then and now stretches like the expanse of a glacier. Blondie can feel the goosebumps raising on the bare skin of his chest . He swallows the memories, blinks them back to focus on the presence beside him. _God above, and after all of that. We’re here, aren't we?_ He drops his hand to Angel's hip, the leather of his belt. Mirroring the gesture from the night after. Angel half-shudders, but doesn't move away, nor look at Blondie. His breath ghosts in the cold air. The fire needs another log.

“Are you still afraid?” Angel’s voice is almost hoarse.

“Not like that,” _not like that at all_. Blondie turns to stare at Angel in half wonderment. There's no trace of the usual smirk there, just a strange, brittle blankness. Blondie wants to say something, but just settles for pressing his hand slightly harder into the bone.

“ _Ad perniciem solet agi sinceritas._ My reasons rarely extend beyond the selfish ones. I suppose that's what made it difficult to see.”

“God above, Angel. This was what you meant by wanting me to have this?”

Angel’s closes his eyes a moment, “Yeah. I had my own reasons too. Meant what I said about the wanting. I did and I wouldn't take it back.”

“Mm,” Blondie’s head is still buzzing from the strangeness of it, the need Angel had -- _for what, me to be like him? But not quite that._ Castellan's words murmur back to him and he remembers all the small, barbed ways Angel tried to push him farther, harder, into spaces that Blondie himself didn't know he so desperately wanted. And places he'd hated himself for wanting.

 _Hell, Angel himself is one of those places_.

“Well. Are you going to go?” Angel breaks the silence slightly loudly, causing Blondie to flinch towards him. _Least I know the answer to that question._ He doesn't force the words out, just leans over and kisses him, without bite, but insistent as he can manage it. Angel freezes a moment, then digs his nails hard into Blondie's leg, sucking at his tongue with something like the old confidence. Blondie smiles against his lips in spite of himself, the tension in his chest loosening by inches.

“If it were that easy--”

“Shut up,” Angel tugs his coat and kisses back yet harder, one hand at his neck and tracking a finger along his jaw. The room is warm and the closeness is so damn familiar, tasting gunpowder, lust and bloodlust with the creak of the inn’s bed. But before things get frantic, Blondie pulls back, licking his lips. _I don't wanna think about the past anymore-- but I don't wanna run from it neither._

“Can we -- go to the house. To yours.”

Shock glimmers across Angel’s face, “Yeah. We can do that.”

They dress in silence. Blondie notices his poncho, strewn across the bottom of the armoire. _Haven’t worn that much since the road north._ He layers it over himself, the weight and smell of gunpowder and desert sweat still a part of him. Angel stares a moment at it, then resumes bundling up his jacket.

Though it's late the line between day and night is a blur in winter. But for one thing Tweechik gets quiet at night. A bit of small game out prowling, a bit of wind through the pines. Otherwise, nothing but the soft crunch of their boots through the freshly fallen snow. By the time they reach the edge of town Blondie can see a few stars peeking out from the curtain of night.

“Orion. It's been a while since I’ve seen it,” he tugs his poncho down from his face. With the storm abated, the night is almost pleasant, if bitter cold.  

“Yeah. Since we came up here. It's a good one to navigate by,” Angel stares, Jupiter glinting in his eyes, “You kept us going straight.”

“You too.”

“Mmm. You know what that one is?” Angel gestures in the direction of a faint quartet of stars, arranged around a central star.

“Cygnus, innit? Or the north cross.”

“Yeah, I know it by that name. Don't know that many of the names.”

“Uhm-- I think that one’s Sirius. Maybe Andromeda rising, there.”

Angel makes a face that in the half-light could almost be a smirk, “So that’s a hobby of yours, then.”

Blondie hadn’t considered it that way, more or less just thought of it as a way to make wandering easier, leaving towns by moonlight to duck the law or just to let the road carve a path through his errant thoughts. _There’s beauty in it, though. Guess I’d always thought that._

Above them, the sky practically thrums with the twisting energies of the Aurora. Magnetic green leaping and mixing with the bare, dim starlight that the lateness affords. The nights are the opposite of long, here. _But the long days are worth the way the nights look._ When he turns back, Angel has his eyes fixed on the poncho again. Blondie meets his gaze.

“Where did you get that? Something of Tuco's?”

Blondie shakes his head, “Soldier from the war. Didn't know him. Don’t even know if it was his. Traded it for my coat, and a quirley. Didn't seem right to take the coat from a dying man.”

A wistful smirk plays on Angel’s lips, “Right.”

“What?”

“It's very like you. Not exactly what I expected, but maybe what I should have.”

“What, you think it was stupid to leave it?”

“I think it's stupid that I don't think that. What the hell would a dead man do with your coat?” Angel shakes his head and tugs at the poncho slightly when Blondie starts to speak, “Nah, don't answer that. I know. ”

Blondie isn't sure if that means he knows the feeling, or knows enough not to push it. He casts his eyes to the cabin, just visible down the path. _Blood and bones. It always did suit Angel._ His legs suddenly feel leaden, his muscles tensing. _How do I really know this isn’t going to end in more corpses?_

“I'm afraid,” Blondie says it to the sky, to the snow and whisper wind, not quite knowing why.

“Of?”

“The same.”

The wind cuts at the stubble on his cheeks for a moment, filling silence. Angel tugs his coat closer.

“I trust your word that you're not going to go that far again,” he laughs a short, bitter bark, “You lie to yourself, Blondie, but I don't think you've ever lied to me. Not since we left the West.”

“I’ll trust _your_ word.”

“I don't know who you can trust if you can't trust yourself. Me? Perhaps. I wouldn't advise that to anyone normally, but I suppose,” he stares up to Orion again, “ _Corvus oculum corvi non eruit._ ”

“What’s that one about? I remember you said it about George.”

“Yeah. It means 'a crow won't pluck out the eyes of another crow’,” he half-shrugs, “It’s almost what I mean.”

Blondie nods, feeling just slightly more calm. At his move they both continue along the path in silent agreement, boots sinking deep into the foot or so of fresh snow overtop of packed ice. Angel lets him lead towards the lonely , stepping in front only to turn the skeleton key.

The shadow of bones under the flare of the lantern-light is simultaneously skin crawling and comforting. They stomp the flakes of snow off their heavy boots without speaking. This time, it’s Angel who sets the fire to light, leaving Blondie to study the splintered-wood from restless carving, the slight mess of the kitchen. _Looks like he was just surviving too._ He braces himself before stepping into the bedroom, readying for the memories.

The bedroom, by contrast, is sharp and clean. It would be almost anonymous if not for the bones, still knocking together slightly from the draft. The knives now glint with grit and polish. Blondie’s fingers twitch, feeling the strange, choking desire rise up in his throat. Observing it like an old enemy. _Or a friend._

Angel studies him from the door, wearing a defiant uncertainty Blondie remembers only from the graveyard. _God, I hated him then. Hated myself for what I wanted to do._

_For what I did do._

That feeling isn't gone by a long shot, but it’s not as hard to take as it has been. _At the very least, I sure as hell can’t hate Angel. Not after all that._ He crosses the creaking wood of the floor, crowding Angel against the door frame. There's a confidence to the space, an edge Blondie can only describe as dangerous. _It's Angel’s, yeah. But I guess I could say it's mine too._ That thought doesn't arrive with the expected wave of self loathing either.

Blondie puts one hand to the edge of Angel's neck, slowly peeling open his coat to reveal the corner of the scar tucked next to his collarbone. Blondie isn't sure which of them shudders when he drags his finger along it. Certainly Angel tenses when Blondie leans in to kiss and nibble at the edge of it. Angel holds in a breath, staring at him expectantly, and Blondie hesitates. _Something that he wants?_

“God, and that's it?”

“What?”

“Nothing, I just,” Angel opens his mouth, then closes it again, as if thinking better of it, “I said I had something to say. I did say that.”

“Yeah?” Blondie pulls back, studying Angel's tight frown. _Thought you said what you needed to?_ He waits for Angel to look up, nods slowly.

“I know you still blame yourself for what happened. For what you wanted, and that you went through with it. But you have to know, Blondie. I knew exactly what to say, exactly which trigger to pull to make you go through with it,” Angel stops to take a breath, far less calm than Blondie has ever seen him, “And yeah, maybe I wanted you to stop acting like an idiot, and hurting yourself when there was no goddamn reason to. Or maybe I just wanted to make you do something to me that no one else could make you do. Fact of the matter is, I barely let you have a say in it.”

Blondie's first instinct is to protest, but under the shadow of the reaching bones, memories of that night play out the story Angel tells.

“Do you understand-- if anyone had done that to me, I'd have killed them outright when I figured it out. But I know you. You're not gonna do that.”

It shocks Blondie slightly to realize in that moment-- he believes that too. He nods slowly. Angel takes another shuddering breath, then holds his gaze defiantly.

“I have never once in my life asked forgiveness. From anyone,” Angel says it with such a strange, bitter pride. Blondie believes him. _How could it not be true?_

“I'm asking for yours.”

Blondie's stomach drops, watching the way Angel fights to hold his gaze. _God, I don't deserve this_ \-- but he tries, tries to listen to what Angel took all night to say. _I don't know how to forgive him for something I feel like I did._

 _But hell. Maybe I can admit at least the blood is on both our hands. And I sure as hell don't want that to hold us back anymore._ He swallows, finding the right words at last.

“Well. Considering I got you to do something no one else could. I guess that makes us even.”

A beat of silence, Angel’s brow knits together, and Blondie can't help the slight smirk from playing at his lips.

“You sonofabitch.”

Angel shakes his head slowly,and when he says it, it's far fonder than when Blondie ever spit it at him. He moves into Blondie’s space, carefully gripping his forearm.

“So are we alright, then?” Blondie breaks the silence. It's stupid, and a little selfish, but Blondie rather wants to finish what they started. Angel purses his lips, lays a hand on Blondie's throat and tugs him closer. He keeps one finger pressed on Blondie's carotid as he kisses him, but it's as slow and gentle as he's ever managed, if still forcing the breath from Blondie's throat by hand and tongue.

“Yeah. It’s like I said. Gonna keep you around.”

 _Good._ Blondie wants to say, but settles for shoving Angel back against the wall, crushing the words against Angel's lips. _Keep me around, stay with me. I don't wanna just survive anymore._

Angel starts to work his fingers through the knots of Blondie's coat, which Blondie matches by getting his hands underneath the scarf around Angel’s neck. It's a few minutes of struggling against the slightly frozen caribou leather before he finally gets just the coat off. _God, I’d almost forgotten how much damn work this is._

“When you said North, did you ever think about how much we’d have to wear?”

Angel fumbles the button and laughs, all the hard lines in his face melting to something almost human. He flicks the shirt open, finally, and gets into a rhythm with the others, “I was thinking it'd be less sticky than the desert. Now it's just a cold sweat instead.”

“You got some Latin shit to describe that?”

“ _Dira necessitas?_ Nothing clever.”

“Thank god, I don’t wanna think anymore.”

“Since when do you?”

Blondie kisses him then to shut him up, then shoves him back onto the bed, now that his damn shirt is finally on the floor. Angel cocks his head and turns up his lips, his cheekbones hollowed out in the lamplight. Before Blondie can enjoy the wicked grin, Angel’s hands work open his belt and pants, stroking cold fingers along his cock. Blondie shivers, the contrast shocking a burst of heat from his groin.

A moan slips out when Angel ghosts his hot tongue over the tip. Blondie runs a hand along the edge of his hair and Angel digs his hand into Blondie's thigh, engulfing his cock and tearing out a half-scream from Blondie's lips. It’s so _much_ all at once, rough nails along his ass and tight lips almost desperate with every movement.

He lets himself give in to it, fire building in his stomach. _Feels good. It ain’t pain, this time._ It’s after a moment of exquisite gasping and sensation that he realizes he doesn’t quite want this to be quick and desperate. _Maybe that’s stupid, but, hell. I guess that's what I'm after._

“Relax.”

Blondie leans in to kiss him again, tasting himself on Angel’s tongue, blood and gunpowder and something of the awful divine. It's slow and reverent, and he can feel Angel pulling back from it in the tendons of his neck even before he moves away, raising his eyebrows. Blondie doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t want to tonight. _We’ve waited this long. Can take some time._

The combination of fire and creeping starshine from the window creates a strange tapestry of Angel’s skin. There are more than a few small scars amidst the glow of of the hair along his chest, some faded white and blending into his skin like fabric, marks that Blondie is sure don't mean shit to Angel. _Or he's forced them not to._ His mark, though, is frost-white under the lamplight, each of its intricacies carved out by the deep shadow. Blondie swallows and sits on the bed, but continues to stare. _Something beautiful about that too._

Angel cracks his knuckles, slightly tense and tight-lipped. Blondie kneels overtop of him on the bed, placing a hand on the scar and watching the way Angel’s fingers grip into a fist.

“Let me ask you something. No bullshit.”

“Yeah?”

“Is my scar the only one you’ve asked for?”

“Damn you. Yes. Yes.”

Blondie well knows by now it’s easier for Angel to take pain than any hint of tenderness. _But when the hell has this been easy?_ He runs his fingers along the scar, drags his lips along the rough and knotted valleys of it. Angel shivers under his touch, taking in a deep breath that Blondie can feel against his face.

“You alright?”

Angel nods, white knuckle gripping Blondie's other hand. Blondie tugs his hand, and Angel lets him switch the grip, lets him squeeze his hand so tightly Blondie can feel exactly what it would take to break Angel's fingers. Angel shudders, relaxing by bare inches.

“God you make me want to say such stupid shit.”

“Would you kill me if I asked you what?”

“ _Quid me nutruit me detruit,”_ Angel leans towards him, nipping the bare skin of his collarbones, “Not having you around was far harder than I wanted it to be.”

“Yeah. God. I know the feeling.”

Angel digs his nails into Blondie's back, the strange stump between his right hand tracing along his spine. Blondie gets a hand into his pants, squeezing at his rock hard cock and enjoying the hiss of pleasure in his ear. He starts to work up a rough rhythm, listening at the way Angel’s breath hitches, his stomach tensing.

“Hold on.”

Blondie pauses, loosening his grip. Waiting for Angel to raise his eyes. _Something wrong_?

“What?”

“Never mind, don't stop,” Angel’s breath quickens, and Blondie does pull back a moment to seek out the bottle of oil in the bedside drawer. Angel studies him, a slight frown on his face as he takes off his pants.

“I’ll never understand why you did that. Not now. Back in the cave.”

"Did what?"

"Stopped. You had the advantage."

“You asked me to,” Blondie says simply, coating his fingers in oil. The smell is earthy and far more familiar than it has any right to be.

“Yeah,” Angel twitches slightly when he begins circling the tight ring of his ass.

“You know you're the craziest person I've ever met. What the hell were you thinking, coming with me up here? Why the hell did you follow me in the first place?”

“I mean there’s this,” Blondie slips a second finger in, tearing out a gasp from Angel. Blondie bites at the tip of the scar, just because he _can_ now.

“No, I know that,” Angel half-moans, trying to keep the words on his tongue, “The craziest thing about you is that you know exactly what I am and you're still here.”

“What, you think I should keep hating you? Tough shit.”

“I'm saying you have no sense of self preservation, idiot,” Angel’s breath gets more ragged as Blondie pushes his finger deeper, “But if you really wanted to get yourself killed there are easier ways to do it.”

“Yeah well. Guess I’m stubborn. Maybe I want to be kept around.”

“ _Maybe,_ ” Angel says mockingly, and Blondie twists his hand just to make him gasp. He doesn't bother to respond, just focuses on tearing the words off of Angel’s lips. It’s a power rush, seeing him struggle for breath, unable to even clench his fist as Blondie ghosts his fingertips over the scar again and strokes his finger deeper inside him. _God I could come apart just like this._

“In the cave. I still. I still don't understand how you knew I was afraid.”

“God above, Angel.”

“What?”

“You should shut up before I say something we both don't wanna hear.”

“Fuck me till I can't speak, then.”

“Yeah. Alright.”

Blondie pulls out his hand, and Angel lays his legs across Blondie’s shoulders impatiently. Blondie licks his lips and groans as he slides into the hot, tight muscle of Angel’s ass.

“ _C_ _hrist_ , Angel,” he breathes.

“ _Yes._ ”

Then they both start to move, and it’s like the storm in his every muscle, frozen sweat and liquid heat driving to the center of him again, _again._ There's force in it, but it's a violence without name, without the weight of human word or deed. _I can become that. He wants that in me._ No sooner does the thought overtake him when Angel cries out, thrusting upwards and coming in spurts across his chest. Startled, he slows pace, drags his hand along Angel’s chest, his heartbeat, the wound flashing in memory before his eyes. Then Angel drives up into him, drives him over the edge with a scream in his throat and a prayer on his lips.

They collapse in tangled unison. Blondie lays overtop of Angel far longer than he means to, both of them breathing, listening to the breath of the other. Angel slips a finger to his neck, just for a moment. Feeling the pulse there. Then he shuffles away with a wince and a half-smile. _Not much to be said to that._ Blondie reaches for a rag in his pants pocket to clean himself off, passing it to Angel without speaking. They settle back on the bed, both still a bit out of breath.

“ _Auribus teneo lupum,”_ Angel scrapes for a handful of pipe tobacco in the counter drawer, lighting a match, “I'm torn between 'let’s never do that again’ and 'let’s do that every night until we die of old age.’”

“Come on. I know you'd get bored if we did it like that every night,” Blondie rummages for his own quirley, pausing to give Angel a knowing smirk, “I would too.”

“That’s cause you're a piece of work. Like me,” Angel grins before starting on his pipe.

The smile doesn't quite fall off Blondie's face, but it does give him pause, “I'm not like you.”

 _I mean, isn't that what got us in this mess?_ Angel purses his lips around the pipe, taking it in stride.

“Like enough. But yeah. I know that. I know that now.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,”

“Now that's even stupider shit than I was saying. Come on.”

Blondie shakes his head, “I know you'd be in bed with yourself if you could be.”

“You know me well,” Angel breathes out the smoke, “But maybe I'm not such an idiot that I believe that would be better for me. Probably would end up dead for it.”

That makes Blondie smirk evenly enough. On another night he might have thought the world would be better for that. He takes out a quirley, feeling oddly lucky that isn't the case. Angel drags his fingers along the scar before reaching for a blanket.

“That’s not going away, you know.”

“That’s the idea.”

Blondie knows enough to take that as a sincere compliment. They share silence, neither touching nor watching, for several minutes. The smell of pipe tobacco mixes with the heavy leaf of the general store quirlies. Blondie gets up when his legs start to gain feeling again, throws another few logs on the bedroom stove. Angel finishes his pipe, and Blondie puts out his quirley. _Should save the half of it for another night._

Angel slips under the heavy wool and furs, skin dry from the fire’s warmth, and Blondie does the same. _Slept like shit for the last...well, just over a month_ . His own body feels heavy and comforting, and like it somehow fits around him. He throws an arm over Angel’s side, just like before. _That’s the same, at least._ He feels his eyelids drooping.

“Anyways. In the cave,” Blondie half-mumbles, before he forgets. Angel tenses under his fingertips.

“Thing is. I knew you were afraid because I was.”

“Like enough, then,” Angel has a weary lightness to his voice, at once faraway and close.

“Yeah,”Blondie settles his fingers along the edges of the scar, “Wake me when you do, Sue will give me hell if I'm late.”

“Mhm.”

The last sensation Blondie remembers before sleep pulling him under is the rough calluses of fingertips ghosting over his.

Blondie does sleep soundly, though the morning comes too soon. Still, it’s not a bad thing, going back to glowering at Angel over a steaming mug of moss and a few bites of pemmican. The fire in the cabin throws around better heat than in the inn, and Blondie is already making plans to move what little he owns into the space before the end of the day. When his hand falls into his coat pocket as they leave, he finds cool metal again.  _The star. Well, I ain't a sheriff. But it ain't quite killing either._ He takes it out and leaves it next to Angel's knives.  _No use holding on to that out there. Might lose it._

The weather has settled to a clear, dry cold with little wind. _All and all, good day for a hunt_. Blondie can feel Sue’s eyes on him and Angel as they walk in step with each other towards the cabin. He smiles, meets her eyes.

“Peter late today?” Blondie keeps his voice casual, and she picks up the rhythm of it.

“You’re early,” she smiles back, turning to Angel who gives her a slow nod back.

“Work quick. Bring them back with the blood still warm. Castellan and I have an idea.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Sue waves him off with a dry smile. As he leaves towards the smoke she turns to Blondie.  

“So.”

“I, uh. We--”

“I'm glad. It's about damn time,” she tosses him a smaller hunting rifle, “You gonna be safe?”

“Yeah.”

“You happy?”

He blinks, the question utterly foreign to him, “Yeah. All of it, really, uh. Thanks, Sue. For all of it."

“You're welcome. Stick around after. We can play cards and stew up some of what we catch, now that we’re _zhuu ghadidich'uh,_ at least between the four of us.”

“Right. That sounds great.”

The words aren’t forced, or careless, either. The hunt passes like any other-- a quiet stalk on fresh snowfall, the pines and the echo of the gunshots across the tundra their only witness. But with Sue behind him, and Peter too, and someplace to go back to that doesn’t feel suffocating. The fear creeps back a few moments-- sometimes he sees it reflected in the eyes of the catch right before he shoots it clean through the neck.

_But maybe that won’t go away all at a time. We’ll start with this._

After sorting out the snatch of rabbit and porcupine, they trek back to town, weighed down by a respectable catch. _We’ll eat tonight and store some, too._ Blondie slips a dead rabbit under his jacket to keep it warm as they retrace their snowshoe-steps. The blood soaks into his shirt slightly, but he doesn’t mind.

Later, hands warmed by the roaring hearth in Sue’s cabin, he slips out the rabbit for Angel and Castellan. Angel stares at the bloodstain hungrily, and Blondie knows then why he didn’t mind.

“Told you he’d find a way,” Angel smiles sharp as the flash of a blade at Blondie before going to work on the rabbit. He was always good with the knife, but months of carving work have honed his touch to something fluid and quicksilver. Before Blondie can blink, he splits the rabbit right along the neck, spilling what’s left of the blood into one of Castellan’s glass cups. She picks it up and gives it a shake and a cool smile.

“Yes. It will do.”

Blondie isn’t sure if he’ll ever _really_ get used to that, but it feels familiar enough.

He watches Angel spread the entrails a neat pile only a moment longer before giving Sue a hand with the pot. Angel makes short work of the three snow hares before joining Castellan in the other room. Blondie and Sue play a few rounds of Faro, no stakes, just to kill time.

Before long, the room smells of the lean meat and the peculiar lichens that Blondie has long since gotten used to the taste of. Blondie sets out the bowls and calls them in, while Sue tends to drinks.

“That wine?” Blondie notices the heady scent from the other pot.

“Been saving it. Thought we’d use it after the next caribou hunt, but now seems like a good time.”

With Castellan and Angel bantering about god-knows-what in the hare’s blood, and the table set with a full meal, Blondie can’t argue with that. He sits down next to Angel, who flashes him a smirk. Blondie kicks at his leg slightly under the table, then rests his ankle there and smirks back.

“Good hunt,” Angel nods, and Blondie grins.

“Yeah. It was.”

“Well. Let's have a toast then,” Sue raises her cup of steaming wine and surveys them each at the table, eyes softening when they fall on Castellan.

“To another winter. To surviving.”

Blondie wraps his fingers around his earthenware cup, glancing to Sue, and then to Angel before raising it high.

“To living.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the story I came to tell! Thank you so much for jumping on this crazy train.
> 
> Latin/Gwitchin translations:
> 
>  _Ad perniciem solet agi sinceritas_ \- Sincerity is often impelled to it's own destruction
> 
>  _Auribus teneo lupum_ \- Literally, to be holding a wolf by the ears, figuratively, to be in a dangerous or precarious situation, to be between decisions
> 
>  _zhuu ghadidich'uh_ Friendly, implications of family.
> 
> I would love any and all thoughts about the story, and would even like some concrit about more technical elements of the story, or what you might like to see more of in my writing (can't make any promises on subject matter though, lol I have weird taste). Bonus points if you can guess my favourite part from this chapter ;) Lots of north love and thank you again!


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